BEATING 
BACK 


AD  JEN  ^1  IN       S 

AND 

WILL    IRNVIN 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


BEATING  BACK 


Pi 


BEATING  BACK 


BY 

AL  JENNINGS 

AND 

WILL  IRWIN 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 
CHARLES    M.    RUSSELL 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY 

1914 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1913,  by  The  Cubtis  Pdblishinq  Compait? 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


air 


TO 

R.  H.  D.  AND  H.  D. 

THROUGH   WHOM   THE   AUTHORS 
OF     THIS     BOOK     FIRST     MET 


2iG9GS 


CONTENTS 


I.  Introducing  Mr.  Jennings 

II.  The  Long  Riders     . 

III.  Two  Outlaws   . 

IV.  The  Country  Grows  Hot 
V.  The  Last  Campaign  . 

VI.  The  End  of  the  Trail    . 

VII.  In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

VIII.  Convict  31539  • 

IX.  The  Depths 

X.  The  Dawn  of  Hope 

XI.  Planning  My  Comeback  . 

XII.  The  Set-Back  . 

XIII.  Between  Two  Natures    . 

XIV,  Rehabilitation        i        i 


1 

40 

69 

82 

96 

133 

153 

162 

182 

108 

219 

253 

272 

309 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACLNO 
PAGE 


Al  Jennings,  the  Long  Rider,  showing  his  actual 
costume  and  equipment  .     Frontispiece 

Judge  Jennings 6 

"My  temper  suddenly  flamed  up,  and  I  called 

him  a  liar  " 42 

"  I  made  him  ride  beside  me  as  we  galloped  down 

the  right  of  way  " 120 

"  We  drove  him  ahead  of  us  down  the  road  "  130 

"I  went  straight  at  his  neck" 180 

"There,  I  broke  the  ice,  and  watered  my  nitro- 
glycerine"     302 

"The  desire  for  rehabihtation  inspired  my  ac- 
tions"       322 


BEATING  BACK 

CHAPTER    I 

INTRODUCING   MR.    JENNINGS 

(by    will    IRWIN ) 

I  FIRST  met  Al  Jennings  in  a  New  York  club  fre- 
quented by  actors,  painters  and  writers.  Ar- 
riving one  day  for  a  late  luncheon,  I  found  the 
round  table  occupied  by  a  congenial  group,  having  a 
mighty  good  time.  There  was  a  stranger  present; 
and  I  marked  him  on  first  sight  as  a  Somebody.  He 
was  a  little  man,  hardl}^  more  than  five  feet  tall ;  he 
had  a  shock  of  bright  auburn  hair  and  a  face,  what 
with  tan  and  sun-wrinkles  over  a  ruddy  skin,  like  a 
baked  apple.  I  slipped  into  the  vacant  seat  beside 
him.  Someone  introduced  him  as  Mr.  Jennings;  he 
replied  in  a  Western  accent  and  turned  upon  me  the 
beams  of  his  personality.  Here  was  one,  you  felt 
instantly,  whom  all  men  of  good  will  would  like  on 

1 


BEATING    BACK 

sight,  one  to  whom  children  and  dogs  would  come 
running  by  instinct. 

That  face,  as  I  studied  it  more  narrowly  in  the 
next  few  minutes,  showed  certain  extraordinary 
points.  His  fine,  clear,  steady  eye  was  greenish  blue. 
His  wide  brow  ran  straight  down  with  no  indenta- 
tion— Greek  fashion — into  a  small,  cleanly-drawn 
nose  which  seemed  somehow  to  lie  close  against  his 
features,  as  though  presenting  no  point  of  attack 
for  an  adversary.  That  conformation  of  the  brow 
and  nose,  I  have  observed,  is  a  common  trait  in 
pugilists,  born  soldiers,  militant  men  of  affairs,  and 
fighters  generally.  James  J.  Jeffries  and  Battling 
Nelson  possessed  it  in  common  with  Theodore  Roose- 
velt and  Admiral  Bob  Evans.  Under  the  nose  lay 
a  powerful  jaw  and  the  wide,  firm  mouth  of  an 
orator.  The  upper  lip  was  cleft  by  a  big  scar;  the 
upper  canine  teeth  had  been  crowned  with  gold  to 
support  a  dentist's  bridge.  Plainly,  he  had  taken 
at  some  time  a  heavy  blow  which  had  crushed  in  lip 
and  teeth.  I  was  yet  to  learn  that  under  his  clothes 
he  carried  the  following  complement  of  scars :  the 
souvenir  of  a  rifle  bullet  in  his  left  ankle;  the  mark 
of  a  steel- jacketed  Winchester  bullet  in  his  left 
thigh ;  a  pistol  ball  encysted  in  the  muscles  above 
his  right  knee ;  the  track  of  a  bullet  across  the  front 
of  both  knees ;  a  double  scar  where  a  shot  had  en- 

2 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

tered  and  left  his  right  shoulder;  and  the  white 
tracks  of  a  knife  wound  which  had  traversed  his 
left  wrist. 

How  we  opened  conversation  I  do  not  remember; 
probably  with  some  remarks  about  "God's  country," 
such  being  the  hailing-sign  for  Western  people  in 
New  York.  But  we  had  not  talked  five  minutes  be- 
fore he  dropped  a  remark  which  sounded  odd  in  an 
Eastern  club.  Irvin  Cobb  had  been  spinning  a 
humorous  story  at  the  expense  of  the  doctors. 
When  the  laugh  died  down  Mr.  Jennings  turned  to 
me  and  said: 

"That  sounds  like  a  joke,  but  I  saw  as  bad  as 
that  in  the  Ohio  State  Penitentiary;  and  it  was  no 
joke,  either." 

"Were  you  ever  at  the  Ohio  Penitentiary?"  I 
asked,  not  getting,  at  first,  the  full  purport  of  his 
remark.  "I  used  to  know  a  man  who  served  a  five- 
year  term  there,"  and  I  mentioned  the  name. 

"I  should  say  I  did!"  replied  Jennings.  "About 
mv  best  friend,  too.  We  were  both  on  clerical  work, 
and  saw  a  lot  of  each  other." 

"What  was  your  position.?"  I  asked.  "A  guard .5"' 
And  the  second  after  I  regretted  that  impertinent 
question.  But  Jennings  swept  away  all  regret  by 
his  answer : 

"Hell,  no!  I  was  in  for  life — train- robbing." 
3 


BEATING    BACK 

He  said  this  in  a  perfectly  matter-of-fact  tone,  as 
though  he  were  speaking  of  an  old  job  at  selling 
groceries.  Then  he  turned  the  conversation  to  other 
and  more  commonplace  topics. 

It  was  some  time  yet  before  I  understood  the 
deeper  meaning  in  this  conversation.  Harris  Dick- 
son, it  appeared,  had  introduced  him  at  the  club,  and 
had,  by  special  request,  explained  to  his  host  at 
luncheon  the  old  record  of  this  Mr.  Jennings.  I,  how- 
ever, was  a  newcomer;  and  I  must  know.  So  Jen- 
nings had  taken  the  first  opportunity  to  tell  me,  as 
he  has  told  every  man,  woman  and  child  to  whom 
it  can  possibly  make  any  difference  in  the  eleven 
years  since,  with  a  new  suit  on  his  back  and  a  ticket 
to  Chicago  in  his  pocket,  he  stepped  out  of  the 
penitentiary. 

However,  we  had  scarcely  left  the  table  when 
Dickson  called  me  aside  to  explain  him  in  a  hurried 
biography.  This  was  Al  Jennings,  successively  cow- 
boy, land  boomer,  and  lawyer;  afterward  train-rob- 
ber, bank-robber  and  life-termer  in  the  Federal  Peni- 
tentiary. Released  and  pardoned  through  the  suc- 
cessive mercies  of  Mark  Hanna  and  Theodore  Roose- 
velt, he  had  gone  back  to  Oklahoma,  the  scene  of  his 
old  operations,  and,  with  his  record  on  his  sleeve, 
he  had  started  to  take  up  again  the  life  which  he 
left  for  the  high  road.     Meeting  squarely  and  with- 

4 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

out  flinching  those  obstacles  wliich  society  sets 
across  the  path  of  the  ex-convict,  he  proceeded  to 
build  up  a  law  practice.  Finally,  just  ten  years 
after  he  left  the  penitentiary,  he  made  a  reform 
campaign  for  prosecuting  attorney  of  Oklahoma 
City,  fought  the  politicians  of  both  parties  blind, 
and  lost  in  the  end  by  a  small  vote — so  small  that 
most  Oklahomans  believe  he  was  really  elected.  "His 
campaign  speeches,  as  they  report  them  there,  were 
the  greatest  in  political  history,"  said  Dickson. 
"He'd  tell  them  about  his  past,  prison  and  all,  until 
he  had  them  crying  like  penitents  at  the  mourner's 
bench.  Then  he'd  add :  'There,  I've  told  you  every 
thing  I  ever  did.  Now,  suppose  those  machine  fel- 
lows tell  what  they've  done?  In  case  their  memory 
goes  back  on  them,  I'll  supply  a  few  details  right 
here !'  " 

How,  by  successive  stages  of  acquaintance,  I  came 
to  be  the  editor  of  Al  Jennings'  autobiography  is 
aside  from  the  mark.  Two  or  three  times,  indeed, 
he  has  tried  to  write  this  story  for  himself.  One 
of  his  manuscripts,  "The  Long  Riders,"  shows  acute 
observation  of  life  and  a  real  talent  for  description. 
But  Jennings  has  never  found  time,  in  those  full 
and  busy  years  since  he  left  prison,  to  learn  the  art 
of  writing.  "The  Long  Riders"  fails  to  tell  a  story. 
He  is,  however,  a  master  in  the  art  of  talk,  whether 

5 


BEATING    BACK 

from  the  platform  or  from  an  easj-chalr.  That 
narrative  gift  which  often  freezes  within  him  when 
he  sits  before  white  paper,  ilows  hmpid  when  he 
lights  a  cigar,  crosses  his  feet,  and  engages  the  eye 
of  his  vis-a-vis.  So  it  came  that  on  my  advice  he 
talked  off  this  autobiography  to  me,  with  a  court 
stenographer — under  orders  to  make  him  forget  her 
presence — "taking"  his  conversation.  I  have  only 
rearranged,  pruned,  edited,  suggested,  and  sup- 
plied, with  what  skill  I  have,  the  lack  which  every- 
one must  feel  in  all  literal  transcripts  of  conversa- 
tion— the  fuller  meaning  given  by  intonations  and 
gestures. 

Nevertheless,  it  has  seemed  best  for  the  editor  of 
this  frank,  unabashed  story  to  write  the  first  chap- 
ter, in  order  that  the  reader  may  better  understand 
the  man.  In  doing  so  I  must  be  as  frank  with  Jen- 
nings as  Jennings,  in  the  later  passages,  will  be  with 
himself. 

Alphonso  J.  Jennings,  then,  was  born  in  an  aban- 
doned Virginia  schoolhouse  during  the  worst  days 
of  the  Civil  War.  He  came  of  the  proud,  belliger- 
ent. Southern  slave-holding  stock — "the  best  blood 
of  Virginia,"  and  all  that.  His  father,  Judge  Jen- 
nings, is  remembered  by  old  settlers  of  Oklahoma  as 
a  perfect  type  of  the  ancient  Southern  colonel,  even 

6 


Judgr  Jrnnings 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

to  the  goatees.  He  followed  in  his  lifetime  nearly 
all  the  learned  professions — he  was  successively 
schoolmaster,  physician,  Methodist  clergyman,  law- 
yer, editor,  and  lawyer  again.  In  the  end  he  set- 
tled down  to  the  law.  That  was  the  family  talent ; 
his  four  sons  who  survived  to  manhood  all  became 
lawyers.  He  had  in  him,  apparently,  that  typical 
restlessness  of  the  West  which  docs  so  much  to  ex- 
plain his  son,  Al  Jennings.  Whenever  he  reappears 
in  this  narrative  he  is  practicing  law  in  still  another 
town. 

Al,  youngest  of  the  four  sons  who  grew  up,  was 
born  in  the  midst  of  alarms.  When  the  Civil  War 
broke  out,  the  elder  Jennings  had  started  a  planta- 
tion in  Tennessee.  He  enlisted  as  surgeon  in  a  Vir- 
ginia regiment.  In  1863  Longstrect  and  Rosen- 
cranz  were  conducting  that  series  of  operations 
which  led  up  to  the  battle  of  Knoxvillc.  The  elder 
Jennings  perceived  that  there  would  be  a  clash  near 
his  plantation.  He  advised  his  wife  to  take  the 
slaves  and  live  stock  and  go  to  her  mother  in  Vir- 
ginia. Incidentally  he  called  the  turn ;  on  the  night 
of  the  battle  he  used  his  own  house  as  a  field  hospi- 
tal. Mrs.  Jennings  was  forced  to  stop  on  the  road, 
and  at  an  abandoned  schoolhouse  in  Taswell  County, 
Virginia,  Alphonso  was  born.  The  two  armies  closed 
in  about  them.     All  travel  became  unsafe.     So  she 

7 


BEATING    BACK 

stayed  at  the  schoolhouse  in  Taswell  County,  await- 
ing the  issue  of  the  war. 

It  was  a  year  and  a  half  before  Mrs.  Jennings 
knew  whether  her  husband  was  dead  or  alive;  for 
there  were  no  mails  in  the  South  of  war  times.  When 
the  surrender  came,  and  the  roads  were  filled  with 
returning  Confederate  soldiers,  she  used  to  bake  ap- 
ple "pop-overs"  and  give  them  out  at  her  front 
gate.  One  day  she  saw  a  gray  uniform  on  the  road, 
and  ran  out,  pies  in  hand — to  meet  her  husband.  He 
brought  the  news  that,  after  the  surrender,  her 
brother  had  been  killed  in  a  duel  with  a  fellow  offi- 
cer. 

From  that  time  the  Jennings  family  shared  the 
common  fate  of  the  impoverished  South.  They 
solved  the  problem  by  moving  North  to  Marion, 
Ohio.  There  the  old  soldier  heroism  in  Dr.  Jen- 
nings remade  his  fortune.  The  cholera  epidemic 
came.  While  other  physicians  were  running  away, 
while  two  of  his  own  children  lay  dying  with  the 
disease,  he  stayed  at  his  post  and  served  the  sick 
night  and  day.  When  the  refugees  came  back,  he 
found  himself  in  possession  of  all  the  practice  he 
needed. 

To  us,  however,  the  significant  thing  about  these 
first  years  in  the  North  is  the  position  of  the  Jen- 
nings boys  in  boy  society.     The  murderous  antipa- 

8 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

thies  born  in  the  Civil  War  were  still  alive;  and  in 
these  things  children  exaggerate  the  feelings  of  their 
elders.  Life,  it  would  appear,  was  one  long  war,  the 
Jennings  boys,  with  their  clannishness,  their  hot 
temper,  and  their  Southern  pride,  against  this  hos- 
tile Northern  world. 

It  began,  I  believe,  before  Al  Jennings  was  old 
enough  to  fight,  when  the  Goodall  boys,  Northern 
cousins,  called  Ed  and  John  Jennings  "Secession- 
ists" and  "poor  white  trash."  That  last  aspersion 
was  what  hurt.  Before  the  war  they  had  belonged 
to  the  slave-holding  class;  but  now  the  jibe  at  their 
poverty  fitted.  John  scaled  the  fence  "and  repro- 
duced the  battle  of  Manassas,"  says  Al  Jennings. 
The  war  went  on;  the  Cornell  boys,  the  Lowes,  and 
the  Pulleys  were  drawn  into  the  feud.  As  soon  as 
Frank  and  Al  could  wield  their  little  fists  they  took 
their  part.  Frank  was  rather  timid  in  the  begin- 
ning. "At  times  he  was  able  to  kick  a  cotton-tail 
rabbit  out  of  his  way,  so  he  could  get  along  faster," 
says  Al,  "which  seems  strange  to  me  now,  because 
he  grew  up  to  be  the  bravest  man,  the  most  dependa- 
ble in  a  tight  place,  that  I  ever  knew."  Al  himself 
entered  heart  and  soul  into  this  warfare.  "Give  us 
the  boy  and  the  man  will  take  care  of  himself,"  said 
the  Jesuits,  and  "the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long 
thoughts."      This  fighting  childhood  does  much,  I 

9 


BEATING    BACK 

have  no  doubt,  to  explain  the  Al  Jennings  of  thirty. 
Only  one  other  incident  of  this  period  bears  on 
the  story.     At  the  age  of  seven,  Al  Jennings  tried 
to  experience  religion  and  failed.     There  was  a  big 
camp-meeting  in  Marion;  his  father,  still  preaching 
in  the  intervals  of  his  medical  practice,  sat  on  the 
platform.     Something  about  the  meeting  touched  the 
religious  chord  in  the  nature  of  that  little  boy  on  the 
back  seat.     When  the  presiding  elder  asked  all  who 
wanted  salvation  to  hold  up  their  hands,  Al,  quiver- 
ing with  eagerness,  gave  the  sign  with  the  rest.    The 
deacons,  passing  through  the  congregation  to  bring 
up  the  penitents,  never  seemed  to  notice  his  little 
hand,  though  he  thrust  it   almost  into  their  faces. 
Doubtless  they  felt  that  he  was  too  young;  but  it 
appealed  differently  to  Al.     He  thought  they  were 
picking  only  "prominent  citizens"  and  pretty  girls. 
Hurt  to  the  quick,  he  ran  away  from  meeting  and 
went  apple-stealing.     Having  filled  his  clothes  with 
green    apples,   he    compHcated   his    crime   by   going 
swimming  on  Sunday.      While  he  was  splashing  in 
the   pond,   a   drove   of   razor-back   hogs    found   the 
clothes  and  the  apples.    When  he  came  out,  his  waist 
and  breeches  were  torn  to  ribbons.     With  a  small 
boy's  modesty,  he  waited  neck-deep  in  the  pool  until 
dark,  and  sneaked  home  naked.    When  the  storm  had 
passed,  Al  Jennings  found  in  himself  an  illogical  but 

10 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

instinctive  bias  against  religion,  which  persisted  into 
his  mature  years,  and  which  was  intensified  by  the 
growing  skepticism  of  his  father,  who  left  the  church 
soon  after. 

When  Al  was  eleven,  his  mother  fell  sick.  They 
started  her  back  to  Virginia,  but  she  died  on  the 
way,  leaving  four  sons  and  a  younger  daughter.  All 
the  sons  figure  in  this  story — John,  the  eldest ;  Ed, 
Frank,  and  Al.  The  two  latter  were  less  than  two 
years  apart  in  age,  and  passionately  attached  to 
each  other.  Their  lives,  through  prosperity  and  ad- 
versity, crime,  punishment,  and  rehabilitation,  ran 
parallel  all  the  way. 

The  year  after  his  mother's  death  found  the  fam- 
ily at  Manchester,  Ohio.  Here  a  trivial  quarrel 
with  his  father  stirred  up  the  blazing  temper  which 
Al  was  beginning  to  develop.  He  lay  awake  all  one 
night,  nerving  himself  to  what  he  meant  to  do ;  be- 
fore daylight  he  sneaked  out  of  the  house  and  stowed 
away  on  a  river  steamer  bound  for  Cincinnati.  So 
he  followed  the  rule  of  runaway  American  boys  by 
taking  the  final  step  at  the  age  of  eleven,  and  by 
starting  West.  Crawling  out  at  Cincinnati,  he 
found  work  for  three  nights  as  super  in  "Ticket- 
of-Leave-Man."  At  the  end  of  the  run  he  rode  a 
blind  baggage  to  St.  Louis.  A  little,  freckle-faced, 
red-headed  boy,  probably  dowered  already  with  a 

11 


BEATING    BACK 

winning  personality,  undoubtedly  pert  and  "fresh," 
he  made  friends  with  a  saloon-keeper  and  earned  for 
a  week  a  precarious  living  by  sweeping  out  the  sa- 
loon. The  Jennings  boys  were  all  musical;  the  elder 
brothers  played  in  the  town  band  at  home,  and  had 
given  little  Al  some  instruction  on  the  trombone. 
When  he  learned  that  the  variety  theater  next  door 
needed  a  trombone  player,  he  applied  for  the  job. 
The  very  nerve  of  this  child  must  have  appealed  to 
the  leader,  for  he  gave  him  a  chance.  Little  Al  had 
always  read  his  trombone  score  in  the  treble  clef, 
while  the  music  they  furnished  him  was  written  in 
the  bass.  Nevertheless,  with  the  confident  courage 
of  eleven,  he  went  ahead  and  "faked"  his  part  for 
three  days,  until  a  grown-up  musician  with  a  union 
card  displaced  him. 

That  night  he  swung  onto  a  brake  beam  and  rode 
to  Kansas  City.  There  he  worked  a  while  as  errand 
boy  for  a  packing-house,  lost  the  job  for  imperti- 
nence, and  wandered  to  the  outskirts  of  town,  where 
he  fell  in  with  a  "boomer  outfit"  going  West  to  New 
Mexico.  This,  remember,  was  the  summer  of  1875. 
The  tide  of  rough  immigration  was  still  setting 
westward,  and  the  plains  were  perilous  with  Indians 
and  robbers.  The  "boomers,"  pioneer  settlers  who 
traveled  in  covered  immigrant  wagons,  used  to  form 
caravans  for  mutual  protection.     They  took  him  in 

12 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

as  a  kind  of  roving  annex  to  the  outfit;  thence,  for 
a  whole  summer,  he  slept  on  the  ground,  chased 
horned  toads,  fought  or  played  ball  with  the 
"boomer"  children,  and  had  his  meals  at  the  com- 
mon "chuck-wagon"  of  the  caravan. 

They  had  reached  the  vicinity  of  Trinidad,  in  the 
heart  of  the  Colorado  cattle  country,  when  the 
"boomers"  quarreled  and  separated,  leaving  him  be- 
hind. So  he  found  himself  alone  on  Commercial 
Street,  Trinidad,  with  a  quarter  in  his  pocket  and  a 
hollowness  in  his  little  stomach.  He  met  a  Mexican 
bootblack  who  wanted  to  retire  from  business,  and 
exchanged  the  quarter  for  a  box  and  brushes.  He 
•was  swindled,  it  appeared;  the  people  of  Trinidad 
did  not  care  how  their  boots  looked.  All  day  he 
ranged  the  square  without  making  a  cent.  And 
then  came  the  vital  meeting,  which  probably  turned 
the  whole  current  of  his  life. 

"A  big,  broad-shouldered,  blue-eyed  fellow  came 
across  the  street,"  says  Jennings.  "I  thought  then, 
and  I  think  now,  that  he  was  one  of  the  finest,  hand- 
somest men  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  I  never  looked 
into  a  straighter,  clearer,  blue  eye.  He  was  wearing 
all  the  regalia  of  a  dude  cowboy.  His  boot  heels 
weren't  bigger  at  the  bottom  than  a  quarter;  they 
slanted  forward;  and  they  seemed  fastened  to  the 
sole  at  about  the  instep.     I  said : 

13 


BEATING    BACK 

"'Shine?' 

"He  stopped  and  looked  me  over,  and  grinned. 

"  'Well,  Bub,  I  reckon  you  can  paste  them  a  lit- 
tle,' says  he. 

"I  went  to  work.  It  was  the  first  pair  of  boots 
I'd  ever  blacked,  except  my  own,  and  I  made  a  bad 
job  of  it.  I  did  pretty  well  on  the  vamp,  but  I  never 
touched  the  heels.  When  I'd  finished  he  stood  screw- 
ing his  boots  around  so's  he  could  look  at  them,  and 
said: 

"  'Bub,  don't  you  think  you  can  paste  'em  a  little 
right  thar.'" 

"I  was  tired  and  hungry,  and  naturally  pert.  I 
don't  remember  what  I  said,  but  I  probably  used 
words  that  a  little  boy  has  got  no  right  to  know. 
Instead  of  kicking  me  over  as  I  deserved,  he  just 
looked  down  on  me,  and  smiled,  and  said : 

"  'Bub,  you've  sure  got  a  temper.  Where's  your 
paw  and  maw?' 

"  'Ain't  got  none,'  said  I. 

"  'Who  were  they?'  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  answer.  The  truth  is,  I  didn't  like  to 
lie — never  did  like  it,  for  all  the  other  things  I've 
done  in  ray  life — and  this  whopper  tongue-tied  me. 

"  'I  reckon  you  ain't  interested,'  he  said,  after  a 
while.  'Well,  I  ain't  got  no  right  to  ask  you  any 
such  questions.     I  don't  tell  people  where  I'm  from 

14 


INTRODUCING  MR.  JENNINGS 

myself.'  That  was  true,  as  I  learned  afterward.  He 
was  a  refugee  from  Kentucky — a  case  of  killing. 
Whether  Stanton  was  his  real  name  I  don't  know  yet. 

"Then  he  talked  to  me  quite  a  little,  sizing  me  up, 
I  suppose,  before  he  said : 

"  'Bub,  don't  you  want  to  come  along  with  me.'' 
My  name's  Jim  Stanton,  and  I'm  foreman  of  the 
101  outfit.  I'll  teach  you  to  ride,  and  give  you  a 
job.'  " 

The  old  West  was  sudden.  Having  determined 
upon  the  adoption,  Jim  Stanton  proceeded  with  the 
affair  in  royal  fashion.  He  bought  a  little  saddle, 
borrowed  a  pony,  and  took  Al  out  to  the  ranch.  As 
they  rode  up,  a  half  dozen  cowboys  were  lolling 
among  their  saddles  on  the  porch. 

"Hello,  Jim — where  did  you  get  Sandy.''"  one  of 
them  called.  From  that  time  on,  so  long  as  he  rode 
the  range,  Al  was  "Sandy." 

Jim  Stanton  did  the  job  with  a  whole  heart.  He 
taught  his  apprentice  to  ride;  he  educated  him  in 
the  customs  of  the  range;  most  significantly  he 
bought  him  a  45-caliber  Colt's,  the  great  Western 
side-arm,  and  taught  him  how  to  use  it.  Within  a 
few  weeks  Al  had  learned  enough  to  become  "horse- 
wrastler" — that  member  of  a  cattle  camp  who  takes 
care  of  the  ponies.  Like  any  boy,  Al  loved  to  see  a 
horse  go ;  and  he  got  the  habit  of  bringing  in  the 

15 


BEATING    BACK 

herd  blown  and  lathered.  Jim  Stanton  spoke  to  him 
sharpl}^  about  it.  After  the  manner  of  resentful 
and  independent  boyhood,  Al  replied  by  running 
them  harder  next  day.  Then  Jim  Stanton  put  his 
foot  down. 

"Sandy,"  he  said,  "I  ain't  goin'  to  tell  you  any 
more  'bout  running  them  horses.  Next  time  they 
come  in  wet  I'm  going  to  take  it  out  of  your  hide. 
We'll  put  the  chaps  on  you  so  you  won't  sit  down 
for  a  week."  This  was  a  rough  punishment  used  in 
cattle  camps  on  men  who  had  become  obnoxious.  It 
consisted  in  stretching  the  victim  over  a  wagon 
tongue  and  whipping  him  with  a  strap  like  a  school- 
boy. Al  accepted  the  challenge.  That  night,  by 
Jim  Stanton's  orders,  he  was  thrashed  thoroughly 
and  effectively.  Then  the  101  outfit  took  his  gun 
away,  lest  he  be  tempted  toward  violence,  and  left 
him  alone  to  think  it  over. 

The  disgrace  burned  in;  and  it  roused  his  first 
impulse  toward  violence.  The  next  day  Al  did  not 
take  out  the  horse  herd.  He  moped  about  the  camp, 
refusing  to  speak  to  the  men  or  to  eat  at  the  ranch- 
house.  He  got  his  meals  at  the  kitchen  door  and 
walked  the  range,  all  the  time  planning  how  to  get 
a  gun  and  nerving  himself  for  what  he  intended  to 
do — kill  Jim  Stanton  in  front,  man-fashion. 

"Of  course,  I  know  I  couldn't  have  done  it — I 
16 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

loved  him  too  much,"  says  Jennings,  "but  I  thought 
I  had  to,  just  the  same.  After  three  days,  Jim 
Stanton  came  over  to  where  I  was  mooning.  He 
said: 

"  'Bub,  you  got  to  take  your  bumps  if  you're 
ever  going  to  be  a  man.     Let's  call  this  off. 

"I  said  nothing.  I  was  dying  to  make  up ;  but 
my  pride  held  me  back.    Jim  kept  right  on: 

"  'Sandy,  I'm  going  cow  hunting.  Don't  you 
want  to  throw  in  with  me  and  go  along.''  And,  when 
we  get  to  town,  I'm  going  to  buy  you  a  new  bridle, 
with  tassels  on  it.' 

"It  wasn't  the  offer  of  the  bridle  which  melted  me, 
so  much  as  the  excuse  it  gave  for  swallowing  my 
pride.  All  at  once  I  put  my  hand  in  Jim's,  and  the 
quarrel  was  over.  From  that  moment,  as  I  know 
now,  I  grew  up.     I  never  was  a  child  again." 

Jim  Stanton,  in  fact,  became  a  second  father  to 
the  little  refugee.  Even  yet  Al  Jennings  speaks  of 
him  with  an  affection  near  to  tears. 

Those  were  the  high  times  of  the  middle  seven- 
ties, when  half  the  Western  domain,  still  unfenced, 
was  pasture  for  the  herds  of  long-horns — wild  days, 
those,  and  glorious,  if  rough.  Away  from  the  set- 
tlements and  frontier  cities  there  was  no  formal 
law.  Each  man  carried  his  own  law  "in  leather  on 
his  hip,"  his  own  hangman's  rope  on  his  saddle-horn. 

17 


BEATING    BACK 

The  rules  of  the  game  were  unwritten,  but  perfectly 
understood.  By  his  own  right  arm  a  man  defended 
his  family  and  herds.  An  insult  to  honor  called  for 
death — but  in  a  man-fight,  face  to  face,  with  all 
opportunity  for  both  contestants  to  draw.  As- 
sassination, however,  was  murder,  to  be  avenged  by 
the  friends  of  the  dead  with  their  guns,  or  by  the 
community  with  a  riata. 

When  a  man  was  killed  in  fair  fight  over  what  the 
community  considered  a  sufficient  cause,  the  killer 
went  unmolested.  In  the  neighborhood  of  towns  the 
law  made  a  show  of  prosecuting  these  "affairs."  But 
community  feeling  was  dominant  there,  as  on  the 
ranges.  If  the  community  felt  that  the  killer  had 
his  quarrel  just,  and  if  he  had  slain  fairly  and  in 
front,  the  old,  overworked  plea  of  self-defence  got 
him  off.  In  fact,  the  book  law  of  the  towns  often 
worked  less  justice  than  the  gun  law  of  the  ranges, 
since  men  with  pull  and  influence  might  escape  the 
penalty  for  crimes  condemned  by  the  community  at 
large.  All  that  was  the  dark  side  to  a  glorious  man- 
life,  filled  with  young  vigor,  mirth,  cheerfully  ac- 
cepted hardships,  and  adventure. 

In  this  life  Al  Jennings  grew  from  a  little,  stubby 
boy  to  a  little,  compact  youth.  Before  he  was  four- 
teen he  had  become  a  fullfledged  cowboy,  earning  a 
man's    pay    of    seventy-five    dollars    a    month    and 

18 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

"found."  It  was  not  uncommon  to  sec  a  boy  thus 
doing  a  man's  work  on  the  ranges.  For,  once  he 
had  learned  to  ride,  a  boy  was  a  light  mount, 
putting  no  great  burden  on  his  horse.  Roping  is 
more  a  matter  of  skill  than  of  strength;  if  your 
loop  falls  true,  the  trained  horse  does  the  heavy 
work. 

From  the  time  he  got  money  of  his  own  he 
bought  books  and  read  incessantly.  At  first  Jim 
Stanton  got  him  his  literature  in  Trinidad;  when 
that  resource  was  exhausted,  he  sent  East.  Al  de- 
voured Scott  and  the  other  standard  romanticists ; 
he  developed  a  passion  for  history,  and  especially 
for  the  campaigns  of  Napoleon.  Most  of  the  101 
cowboys  were  scant  of  book  learning;  and  Al  took 
to  reading  aloud  around  the  camp  fire  or  the  ranch- 
house  table.  Scott,  and  all  writers  of  his  school, 
were  the  favorites ;  he  read  the  camp-fire  circle  "The 
Lady  of  the  Lake,"  "Marmion,"  "Ivanlioe,"  and 
"Kenilworth"  from  cover  to  cover. 

"I  remember,"  says  Jennings,  "that  I  tackled  'The 
Child's  History  of  England'  once.  When  I  came  to 
the  place  where  King  Alfred  burned  the  cakes,  one 
of  the  boys  spoke  up  and  said : 

"  'If  I'd  have  been  a  king  I'd  'a'  dealt  her  a  swift 
kick  in  the  jaw — treating  a  king  like  that!'  When 
I   fell  asleep,  they  were  still  arguing  whether   any 

19 


BEATING    BACK 

man,  even  a  king,  had  a  right  to  kick  a  woman  in  the 
jaw." 

A  tragedy  rang  down  the  curtain  on  this  scene  of 
his  life.  Sometimes  in  the  spring  roundup  the 
branding  outfit  missed  a  calf.  When,  next  spring, 
the  "long  yearling"  was  discovered  running  beside 
a  cow — presumably  its  mother — it  belonged,  by  cus- 
tom of  the  range,  to  the  outfit  whose  brand  the  cow 
bore.  In  the  spring  round-up  after  Al  was  four- 
teen the  101  outfit  found  such  a  maverick  beside 
one  of  the  cows  of  the  O  X — the  next  ranch.  Jim 
Stanton  found,  however,  that  it  had  a  "blotched" 
brand,  which  looked  to  him  like  101.  Sometimes, 
just  as  the  brand  was  pressed  down,  the  calf  would 
give  a  jerk,  producing  one  of  these  blotches.  The 
O  X  outfit  did  not  agree;  they  flatly  claimed  the 
yearling.  Jim  offered  to  skin  the  calf  and  prove  by 
the  inner  skin,  which  always  caught  the  first  impres- 
sion of  the  iron,  that  this  blotch  was  a  101  brand. 
The  claimants  from  the  O  X  refused,  and  rode 
away  in  a  violent  rage.  Many  of  the  tougher 
ranches  employed  a  "killer"  to  take  care  of  such 
troubles.  That  afternoon  the  killer  of  the  O  X,  a 
Mexican  or  half-breed,  rode  up  to  where  Jim  Stan- 
ton was  tying  a  thrown  steer,  shot  him  dead  from 
behind,  and  rode  South  out  of  Colorado. 

He  must  have  been  a  minor  hero  of  the  plains,  this 
20 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

Jim  Stanton;  only  an  extraordinary  personality 
could  have  inspired  what  followed.  For  a  party  of 
101  cowboys  swore  an  oath  to  get  this  killer.  They 
started  South,  taking  Al  along,  on  the  trail  of  the 
murderer.  They  never  told  him  their  purpose,  con- 
sidering him  too  young  for  such  desperate  work; 
but  he  came  to  understand.  All  summer  they  trav- 
eled, working  from  ranch  to  ranch,  finding,  losing, 
and  refinding  the  trail.  And  in  the  fall  they  located 
their  man  on  the  Rio  Grande.  They  rode  to  the 
ranch-house  in  the  late  afternoon  and  waited,  their 
horses  still  saddled.  At  sunset  the  killer  rode  into 
the  corral.  Al,  standing  beside  his  horse  ready  for 
instant  action,  saw  the  avengers  ride  leisurely  to- 
ward their  man,  saw  him  reach  for  his  hip — and 
tumble  from  the  saddle  with  two  bullets  in  his  head. 
The  101  outfit  whirled  and  galloped  westward. 
There  was  no  pursuit,  there  was  no  complaint  to 
the  law — no  further  trouble  of  any  kind.  The  out- 
fit by  the  Rio  Grande  doubtless  decided  that  the 
"killer"  deserved  what  he  got.  So  things  often 
went  under  the  gun  law ;  and  the  deepest-dyed  con- 
servative must  admit  that  there  was  a  certain  real 
justice  in  this  manner  of  regulating  society. 

The  avengers  rode  on  into  New  Mexico.  There, 
for  two  years,  Al  Jennings  worked  at  his  trade  from 
ranch  to  ranch.     He  was  almost  a  man  now,  and 

21 


BEATING    BACK 

bore  a  man's  part  in  this  rough  hfe.  He  still  car- 
ries a  pistol  bullet  encysted  in  the  muscles  about  his 
left  knee.  He  got  it  from  a  stray  shot,  on  a  night 
when  drunken  cowboys  were  shooting  up  the  town. 
His  left  wrist  is  crossed  by  an  old  scar.  He  got 
that  from  a  knife  in  an  affray  with  the  Mexicans. 

All  this  time  he  had  been  reading;  and,  when  he 
was  sixteen,  ambition  dawned.  He  wanted  an  educa- 
tion; he  wanted  to  follow  his  father's  profession  of 
the  law.  By  a  curiosity  of  memory,  he  cannot  re- 
member how  he  knew  that  his  family  was  living  in 
West  Virginia.  He  had  held  no  communication  with 
them;  for  all  he  knew,  they  thought  him  dead;  yet 
in  some  manner  which  will  not  come  back  to  mind 
he  had  learned.  With  a  few  dollars  in  his  pocket, 
he  started  East.  When  he  reached  Cincinnati,  he 
found  himself  penniless.  He  went  to  the  same  old 
Valk's  Theater  where  he  had  been  a  super  when  he 
first  ran  away,  and  got  a  place  in  the  "army"  of  a 
French  melodrama.  Between  acts  another  super 
told  him  that  the  run  finished  that  night,  and 
warned  him  that  the  big,  bullying  "super-captain" 
would  try  to  cheat  him  out  of  his  pay.  The  curtain 
was  no  sooner  down  than  Al  demanded  his  dollar. 

"Come  back  to-morrow  night;  the  run  ain't  fin- 
ished," said  the  captain.  Al  felt  that  he  was  lying, 
and  said  so.     The  quarrel  grew  warm.     The  captain 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

had  no  means  of  knowing  that  this  short,  slight  boy 
wore  under  his  red  uniform  a  Colt's  forty-five  in  a 
shoulder  scabbard.  So  he  felt  safe  in  knocking  hira 
down. 

Lying  on  the  floor,  AI  drew  and  fired.  The  cap- 
tain dropped  in  his  tracks.  The  stage  became  bed- 
lam. Al,  his  revolver  still  drawn,  retreated  to  the 
dressing-room,  pulled  his  coat  and  trousers  over  his 
costume,  and  ran  through  the  stage  entrance  down 
the  alley.  He  reached  the  railroad  yards  unpursued. 
A  freight  train  was  just  pulling  out.  He  swung 
onto  the  brake  beam;  and  so,  with  one  or  two 
changes  of  trains,  he  came  back  to  his  family  in 
West  Virginia. 

I  asked  Jennings  whether  he  felt  any  special  re- 
morse over  this  shooting.  He  searched  his  soul  be- 
fore he  said  no,  only  considerable  apprehension — for 
he  realized  that  the  East  had  a  different  view  on 
such  things.  His  conscience  was  clean  enough.  That 
was  the  way  they  settled  such  matters  on  the  range. 
A  big  man  who  cheated  and  assaulted  a  little  one 
must  expect  to  be  shot.  His  father,  of  course,  saw 
it  in  a  different  light.  He  had  always  been  afraid 
of  what  Al  might  do  in  a  temper,  and  he  told  him 
so  with  emphasis,  while  he  took  steps  to  find  just 
what  had  happened  in  Valk's  Theater.  The  super- 
captain  had  not  died,  it  appeared.      The  ball  had 

23 


BEATING    BACK 

passed  cleanly  through  his  shoulder,  and  he  was  at 
work  within  a  week. 

So,  by  contrast,  Al  settled  down  to  read  law. 
The  next  summer,  feeling  his  restlessness  upon  him, 
he  played  solo  alto  in  the  band  of  an  old-fashioned 
wagon  circus.  And  that  autumn  his  family,  through 
Judge  Virgil  Armstrong,  secured  him  a  "cadetship" 
— equivalent  to  a  scholarship — in  the  University  of 
West  Virginia. 

In  equipment  and  experience  this  was  probably 
the  strangest  freshman  who  ever  presented  himself 
for  matriculation.  He  had  never  received  a  day's 
instruction  in  grammar.  He  knew  hardly  any  geog- 
raphy. He  could  add  and  subtract,  but  the  multi- 
plication table  was  to  him  as  logarithms.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  had  a  wide  general  acquaintance  with 
English  literature,  carried  universal  history  at  his 
finger's  ends,  and  knew  almost  enough  law  for  ad- 
mission to  the  bar.  West  Virginia,  though  loyal  to 
the  Union,  had  to  bear  with  its  secessionist  sisters 
the  heavy  after-burden  of  the  war.  The  State  Uni- 
versity was  still  struggling  to  keep  its  head  above 
water,  and  took  students  on  almost  any  terms.  For 
two  years  Cadet  Jennings  divided  his  time  between 
the  grammar  school  of  the  preparatory  department 
and  the  legal  department. 

Perhaps  it  is  worth  while  to  record  one  event  of 
24i 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

these  school  days,  not  only  for  its  light  on  charac- 
ter, but  because  it  had  such  a  strange  parallel  in  his 
later  life.  Wild  and  restless,  bored  with  the  quiet 
of  the  academic  life,  Jennings  founded  the  "U.  of 
W.  V.  Guerillas,"  a  set  of  rough,  surreptitious  mis- 
chief makers,  who  delighted  to  overturn  outhouses 
and  break  up  class  dances.  The  authorities  knew 
that  Jennings  was  the  ring-leader,  but  they  lacked 
absolute  proof.  Whenever  he  was  called  to  account, 
Al,  like  a  good  lawyer,  would  refuse  to  affirm  or 
deny  the  charges.  Finally,  on  a  Christmas  Eve, 
the  Guerillas  stole  four  bags  of  powder  and  loaded 
them  inside  an  old  cannon  which  stood  on  the  square 
of  the  campus.  They  wadded  the  charge  with  rags, 
shotted  it  with  broken  bricks,  and  touched  it  off  with 
a  fuse.  The  discharge  blew  the  cannon  from  its 
carriage,  and  broke  the  surrounding  windows. 

The  next  morning  Al  found  himself  on  the  carpet 
before  Major  Lee,  a  fine  and  respected  soldier. 

"Jennings,"  said  the  Major,  "I  believe  you  dis- 
charged that  cannon." 

"If  you  believe  it,"  replied  Cadet  Jennings, 
"what's  the  use  of  me  talking.''" 

The  Major  looked  him  over. 

"Jennings,"  he  said,  "you've  got  the  makings  of 
a  man  in  you.  You've  never  lied  to  me,  and  I  like 
that.     You're  an  able  boy,  and  it  would  hurt  me  to 

25 


BEATING    BACK 

expel  you,  but  this  can't  go  on.  Why  don't  you 
settle  down  and  go  to  work?  I  like  you,  and  I  wish 
you'd  play  square  with  me."  Suddenly  Cadet  Jen- 
nings found  himself  shaking  hands  with  the  Major 
and  promising  to  abide  by  the  rules.  From  that 
time  he  was  a  model  student.  By  the  end  of  the  year 
the  Major  made  him  Lieutenant  in  the  cadet  bat- 
tallion. 

Two  years  of  this;  and  then,  having  the  general 
principles  of  law  in  his  head,  he  grew  impatient  of 
looking  to  his  family  for  support.  His  father  and 
brothers  had  yielded  to  manifest  destiny  and  gone 
West.  He  joined  the  band  of  the  same  old  circus, 
with  the  idea  of  getting  to  his  family  and  making  a 
little  money  on  the  road.  The  solo  cornet  player 
fell  out;  Al  secured  the  job  for  his  brother  Frank; 
the  two  played  all  summer  in  the  mining  camps  and 
cattle  towns  of  Colorado. 

In  the  course  of  that  tour  he  witnessed  a  tragic 
and  desperate  piece  of  heroism  which,  even  after  all 
the  melodrama  of  his  bandit  days,  remains  in  his 
mind  the  bravest  thing  he  ever  knew.  The  circus 
train  was  running  from  Longmont  to  Boulder.  They 
carried  an  exceptionally  tough  and  drunken  gang 
of  canvasmen.  The  boss  canvasman  was  a  brutal 
fighter,  who  ruled  by  the  power  of  his  two  fists.  His 
forces  had  been  sneaking  away  to  get  drunk.     That 

26 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

night  he  swore  a  mighty  oath  that  "they  wouldn't 
run  out  on  him  again,"  and  padlocked  from  without 
the  door  of  their  bunk  car.  Then  he  himself  crawled 
into  the  car  from  the  little,  high  window  at  the  end. 
There  was  a  barrel  of  gasoline  on  the  floor.  Some 
canvasman,  smoking  against  orders,  dropped  a 
match  into  it.  In  two  minutes  the  car  was  a  fur- 
nace— and  the  only  outlet  that  little,  high  window. 

The  boss  stood  under  the  window,  his  clothes  afire, 
throwing  man  after  man  out  to  safety,  until  the  res- 
cuers from  without  caught  his  arms  and  pulled  him 
through.  Burned  beyond  human  semblance,  he 
fought  to  get  back.  When  his  last  breath  left  him, 
there  beside  the  tracks,  he  was  still  fighting. 

Finally,  Al  and  Frank  settled  down  at  Cold- 
water,  Kansas,  a  new  town,  and  were  admitted  to 
the  bar.  His  first  case  is  a  picture  of  old  proce- 
dure in  the  West.  A  woman  had  been  thrown  off 
from  her  claim  by  an  Englishman.  She  brought 
action.  His  father.  Judge  Jennings,  held  the  brief 
for  the  plaintiff;  Al  took  the  case  of  the  English- 
man. Judge  Jennings  cast  some  aspersions  upon  the 
British  attitude  toward  woman.  This  stirred  up 
the  Briton.  He  rose  and  started  for  the  elder  Jen- 
nings. The  trial  judge  and  the  jury  united  in  re- 
straining him.  Young  Al,  very  nervous,  grew  per- 
sonal in  his  summing  up.     He  knew  his  father,  he 

27 


BEATING    BACK 

said ;  and  the  old  gentleman  had  a  genius  for  making 
black  white.  He  urged  the  jury  to  disregard  his 
father's  eloquence  and  give  their  verdict  on  the 
merits  of  the  case.  "And  father  reared  back,"  says 
Jennings,  "and  gave  me  the  hardest  tongue-lashing 
I  ever  got  in  my  life.  He  fairly  made  me  crawl  in- 
side. He  took  every  one  of  my  faults  and  laid  them 
on  the  table.  He  asked  them  what  they  thought  of 
a  boy  who'd  talk  that  way  to  his  old  father  when  he 
wasn't  yet  dry  behind  the  ears?  The  jury  gave  me 
the  verdict,  but  they  did  it  because  they  were  sorry 
for  me." 

Young  Al,  still  quivering  under  his  lashing,  told 
his  father  two  days  later  that  he  was  going  to  quit 
the  law. 

"Why?"  asked  his  father.  "You  won,  didn't 
you?  And  I  gave  you  that  roasting  on  purpose  to 
teach  you  that  when  you  face  a  court  you've  got  to 
keep  your  temper  and  stand  for  personalities." 

Al  had  acquired  some  property,  and  was  doing 
well  at  law,  when  Fate  and  his  own  folly  hurled  him 
into  another  phase  of  life.  While  with  the  circus 
he  had  learned  that  he  was  a  natural  sprinter.  He 
has  been  timed  for  the  hundred  yards  in  10^ ;  he 
might  have  done  "even  time"  had  he  ever  received 
expert  coaching.  An  old  professional  sprinter 
named   Foss — let  us    say — appeared   in   Coldwater, 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

traveling  under  an  assumed  name.  He  scraped  ac- 
quaintance with  Al.  They  ran  against  each  other; 
Foss  could  beat  him  six  yards  in  a  hundred.  Then 
Foss  confided  to  Al  the  business  which  brought  him 
to  Coldwater.  There  was  a  sprinter  in  the  next  town 
who  thought  he  could  run.  Foss  had  come  incognito 
to  get  a  match.  Strangely,  Al  Jennings,  for  all  his 
experience,  had  never  heard  of  the  "cross,"  the  sim- 
ple, primitive  game  which  has  discredited  profes- 
sional foot-racing.  He  bet  all  his  money  on  Foss ; 
growing  more  enthusiastic,  he  hypothecated  family 
property  to  bet.  The  race  came.  Of  course  Foss 
stumbled  just  after  the  start,  recovering  himself, 
and  made  a  vain,  plucky  effort  to  catch  his  man  at 
the  tape. 

"We  were  so  astonished,"  says  Al  Jennings,  "that 
nobody  thought  to  shoot  him." 

Humiliated,  in  debt  to  his  family,  Al  left  Cold- 
water.     His  next  stop  was  Boston,  Colorado. 

You  will  look  in  vain  for  Boston  on  the  map.  It 
was  one  of  those  boom  towns  with  which  the  pioneer 
business  men  of  that  era  shook  dice  against  Fate. 
If  they  won,  they  had  the  foundation  of  a  future 
Denver  or  Oklahoma  City ;  if  they  lost,  the  place 
reverted  to  primitive  wilderness.  Boston  lay  in  the 
middle  of  a  rich  cattle  country ;  but  that  was  not  the 
basis   of  its   bid   for  prosperity.      Las  Animas,  in 

29 


BEATING    BACK 

which  it  was  situated,  is  a  large  county.  The  boom- 
ers of  Boston  planned  to  divide  the  county  and  have 
Boston  for  the  county-seat.  They  put  up  a  ten- 
thousand-dollar  hotel  and  a  street  of  stores ;  they 
laid  out  a  town  site  and  grew  rich  on  paper  trading 
lots ;  and  they  pooled  all  their  ready  money  in  a 
fund  to  corrupt  the  Colorado  legislature,  which  was 
in  those  days  easily  corruptible.  The  firm  of  Jen- 
nings Brothers — Al  and  Frank — kept  a  store, 
opened  a  real  estate  office,  and  pooled  their  funds 
with  the  rest. 

Boston  shared  in  the  disorder  of  all  towns  in  the 
cattle  country.  The  cowboys  used  to  come  in  from 
the  ranges  on  Saturday  nights  and  shoot  up  Main 
Street.  On  one  day  Boston  had  three  funerals  due 
to  violence.  A  settler  shot  his  neighbor.  Since  it 
was  cold-blooded  assassination,  a  band  of  the 
tougher  citizens — the  Jennings  brothers  had  no  part 
in  this — lynched  the  murderer.  That  same  after- 
noon an  extremely  drunken  cowboy  of  bad  reputa- 
tion came  into  town  and  tried  to  kill  his  enemy.  A 
bystander,  drawing  just  in  time,  killed  him.  The 
one  clergyman  in  Boston  refused  to  bury  the  cow- 
boy. Al  Jennings,  always  a  friend  of  the  cattle 
element,  conducted  the  services  over  him. 

"Told  all  about  his  virtues,"  says  Al.  "Didn't 
take  long." 

30 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

There  was  another  wild  night,  when  Judge  Jen- 
nings, by  his  courage  and  eloquence,  kept  a  drunken 
mob  from  committing  a  lynching,  before  the  bottom 
fell  out  of  Boston.  The  legislature,  as  expected, 
voted  for  the  division,  and  the  creation  of  "Vaca 
County,"  with  Boston  as  county-seat.  But  the  gov- 
ernor vetoed  the  bill.  A  fire  swept  away  most  of 
the  houses.  A  band  of  cowboys  rode  into  town  and 
"shot  up"  all  that  remained — which  finished  Boston. 
Over  the  town  site  now  grow  the  alfalfa  fields,  and 
there  is  a  watering  trough  on  the  foundation  of  the 
ten-thousand-dollar  hotel. 

That  brings  us  to  1889,  in  which  year  Oklahoma 
was  opened  for  settlement.  To  understand  the  rest 
of  this  story,  you  must  understand  fully  the  civic 
condition,  in  that  year  and  the  following  years,  of 
the  territory  which  is  now  the  State  of  Oklahoma. 
It  was  then  divided  into  two  parts — Indian  Terri- 
tory and  Oklahoma  proper.  The  Territory  had 
long  been  the  home  of  the  Five  Civilized  Tribes.  The 
legal  system  was  dual — Federal  law,  with  certain 
special  provisions  to  fit  Indian  necessities,  and  the 
strict,  often  curious  tribal  laws  which  the  Indians  ad- 
ministered among  themselves.  The  whites  occupied 
this  district  only  by  a  kind  of  courtesy.  Some  had 
married  Indian  women,  and  so  became  lords  of  prin- 
cipalities in  Indian  lands.     Certain  stockmen  leased 

31 


BEATING    BACK 

ranges  from  the  Indians,  often  for  trifling  payments. 
Further,  there  was  the  element  known  contemptu- 
ously among  cattlemen  as  "nesters."  These  pioneer 
farmers  were  also  leasers,  usually  agreeing  to  clear 
the  land  in  return  for  a  five-year  tenure. 

Oklahoma  proper,  the  other  end  of  the  present 
State,  had  been  held  by  the  government,  practically 
untenanted,  for  future  use  of  the  Indian  tribes.  By 
1889,  however,  the  Indian  population  had  so  dwin- 
dled, and  the  "boomers"  had  grown  so  insistent,  that 
the  government  threw  it  open  for  settlement.  That 
was  the  first  and  greatest  of  our  land  rushes.  The 
settlers  lined  up  on  the  border.  At  the  sound  of  a 
gun  they  rushed,  the  first  comer  to  any  tract  seizing 
it  by  right  of  arrival  and  holding  it,  often,  by  force 
of  arms. 

The  formal  law  of  the  land  came  early  into  Okla- 
homa. Within  a  few  years  it  was  a  settled  and  or- 
derly district ;  now,  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  century 
later,  it  is  as  though  the  old  West  had  never  existed 
in  those  prairies. 

Until  recently  things  went  diff'erently  in  Indian 
Territory.  Held  back  from  close  modern  settlement 
by  its  curious  legal  status,  largely  inhabited  by  In- 
dian tribes  which  were  civilized  only  in  the  relative 
sense,  it  became,  in  the  next  few  years,  the  refuge 
for  the  "bad  men"  of  the  West,  and  for  those  who 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

could  live  only  under  the  gun  law.  The  cattle  busi- 
ness was  changing.  The  range  was  shrinking  every 
day.  Under  old  conditions,  a  man  got  his  seventy- 
five  or  a  hundred  dollars  a  month  for  work  which 
required  nerve,  resource,  and  continual  dalliance 
with  danger.  Now,  a  line  rider  at  thirty  dollars  a 
month  did  the  comparatively  safe  and  monotonous 
work  of  keeping  up  the  wire  fences.  Those  who 
could  breathe  only  under  old  conditions  drifted  to 
the  Territory. 

There  were  four  strata,  roughly  speaking,  in 
white  territorial  society.  First,  the  townspeople, 
living  under  Federal  law  about  as  people  lived  any- 
where in  new  Western  towns.  A  large  part  of  them 
held  employment,  in  one  way  or  another,  under  the 
Federal  government.  The  territorial  police  were 
represented  by  the  marshals,  men  of  nerve  and  dar- 
ing, under  whom  were  the  deputy  marshals,  a 
strangely  mixed  body.  Some  of  them  had  both  hon- 
esty and  courage.  Some  had  neither.  Some,  as  will 
afterward  appear,  were  actual  accomplices  of  the 
criminals  whom  they  took  pay  to  hunt. 

The  "nesters"  formed  a  class  by  themselves;  gen- 
erally they  were  the  sport  of  the  third  class,  the  cat- 
tlemen, and  the  prey  of  the  fourth  class,  the  out- 
laws. 

The  cattlemen  and  outlaws  had  a  loose  affinity 
33 


BEATING    BACK 

for  each  other.  Here  and  there  was  a  ranch  which 
existed  only  as  headquarters  for  outlaw  raids.  The 
boldest  cattlemen  protected  the  outlaws ;  even  the 
more  moral  or  timid  usually  ignored  them  and 
minded  their  own  business — unless  their  property 
was  molested,  when  they  resorted  to  private  venge- 
ance. 

So  the  outlaws — train  robbers,  bank  raiders, 
brand  blotters,  horse  thieves,  and  vendors  of  whiskey 
in  a  district  where  whiskey  selling  was  a  crime — 
could  depend  on  the  country  to  assist  and  conceal 
them.  It  was  as  in  the  merry  days  of  Robin  Hood, 
when  the  outlaws  shared  their  gains  with  the  peas- 
antry, and  the  peasantry  made  return  by  misleading 
the  sheriff  of  Nottingham. 

A  fair  country  it  was,  and  is  even  now,  when  the 
nester  has  conquered,  and  the  old  days  are  utterly 
gone,  and  all  Oklahoma,  the  Indian  Territory  in- 
cluded, has  entered  the  sisterhood  of  States.  We 
had  no  finer  tract  in  our  national  domain  than  that 
which  we  gave  these  Indians.  It  rolls  in  gentle 
prairies,  riotous  with  long  grass  and  flowering 
shrubs.  It  is  traversed  by  low  hills  and  little  moun- 
tain ranges  covered  with  native  forest.  It  is  shot 
with  clear  streams,  widening  here  and  there  to  little 
lakes.  This  story,  however,  has  nothing  to  do  with 
scenery ;  the  pertinent  fact  is  that  these  hills,  water 

34 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

courses,  forests,  and  thickets  adapted  themselves 
wonderfully  to  the  uses  of  gentlemen  in  perpetual 
act  of  escape. 

To  tlie  Oklahoma  rush  came  Al  Jennings,  up- 
rooted from  Colorado  by  the  explosion  of  the  Bos- 
ton boom.  He  wanted  no  land ;  he  had  his  fill  of 
that.  He  regarded  Oklahoma  simply  as  a  good  coun- 
try to  work  up  the  practice  of  law.  Frank,  who 
will  figure  largely  in  the  rest  of  this  story,  re- 
mained in  Colorado,  and  became  deputy  county  clerk 
in  Denver.  Now  approaching  thirty,  he  seems  by 
all  accounts  to  have  been  a  stalwart  and  attractive 
man.  Unlike  Al,  he  was  not  only  athletic,  but  big 
and  powerful.  Without  Al's  temper,  he  nevertheless 
was  all  cool  nerve.  Once  the  fight  was  crowded  on 
him,  he  made  a  mighty  efficient  fighter  with  either 
fist  or  gun.  Al,  after  six  months  of  roving  in  the 
new  Territory,  finally  hung  out  his  shingle  at  El 
Reno.  He  grew  popular;  after  Canadian  County 
organized  itself,  he  became,  almost  without  opposi- 
tion, its  county  attorney.  Ambition  awoke;  he  says 
that  he  gave  an  honest  administration,  and  I  have 
heard  nothing  to  the  contrary.  But  as  government 
came  into  Oklahoma,  so  did  politicians ;  and  this 
lone  wolf  of  a  man  got  on  badly  with  them.  Fail- 
ing of  renomination,  he  went  to  Woodward,  Okla- 

35 


BEATING    BACK 

homa,  where  his  father  and  his  brothers,  John  and 
Ed,  were  practicing  law.  For  a  few  months  he  was 
adrift  there,  waiting  for  something  to  turn  up. 

Here  we  have  him,  near  that  middle  course  of 
life's  road  concerning  which  Dante  sang ;  and  I  have 
tried  to  record  only  such  incidents  in  his  early  life 
as  will  explain  what  happened  later.  Physically,  he 
had  grown  to  be  a  little  dynamo  of  strength  and  a 
greyhound  of  speed.  His  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds  were  all  muscle  and  force.  Of  every  rough, 
manly  art  which  the  West  knew  he  was  master.  Not 
only  could  he  ride;  he  was  a  real  horseman — which 
means  something  more  than  mere  riding.  In  pistol 
shooting  of  the  kind  useful  under  old  conditions  he 
figured  as  an  adept.  The  crucial  point  in  that  kind 
of  shooting  was  not  marksmanship,  but  quickness  on 
the  draw.  Al  shot  by  "fanning"  a  single-action 
Colt's  44,  with  the  trigger  filed  away.  Used  in  that 
manner  by  an  expert,  a  single-action  gun  was  faster 
than  a  double-action.  He  shot  a  rifle  from  under 
his  arm  by  sense  of  direction.  In  a  rifle  gallery  he 
would  have  looked  like  a  novice,  but  he  was  deadly 
on  moving  objects  inside  of  the  two-hundred-yard 
range. 

In  his  infancy  he  had  found  a  hostile  world  ar- 
rayed against  him,  and  learned  to  battle  for  his 
rights.     In  the  significant  and  vital  years  of  child- 


INTRODUCING    MR.    JENNINGS 

hood  he  had  lived  a  man's  Hfe  under  the  gun  law. 
Servant  of  the  formal  law  though  he  was,  a  feeling 
of  the  sanctity  of  private  vengeance  probably  rested 
at  the  bottom  of  his  thought ;  and  in  our  crises  we 
act  not  upon  the  ethics  of  our  formal  training,  but 
upon  the  impulses  of  our  unconscious  natures.  He 
still  believed — at  bottom — that  vengeance  of  a  pri- 
vate wrong  was  his  own  private  matter.  Thirty 
years  had  not  cooled  his  hot,  desperate  temper. 

Nor  was  he  in  other  and  slighter  respects  at 
rights  with  the  morals  of  this  modern  world.  Though 
he  did  not  recognize  it  then,  he  admits  it  now.  He 
had  played  the  game  of  commerce,  in  his  boom  days 
at  Boston,  as  the  old  boomer  of  the  old  West  always 
used  to  play  it.  He  had  trafficked  in  worthless  town 
lots ;  he  had  helped  corrupt  a  state  legislature.  If 
he  administered  honestly  the  office  of  county  attor- 
ney, it  was  partly  because  he  cared  less  for  money, 
in  that  period  of  his  life,  than  for  a  political  future, 
and  partly  because  he  had  an  ingrained  sense  of  his 
duty  toward  liis  pals — represented  in  this  case  by 
the  people  of  Canadian  County.  To  desert  a  friend, 
to  go  back  on  an  ally,  was  the  blackest  sin  of  his 
decalogue. 

Such  a  complex  nature  as  his  cannot  be  expressed 
by  any  formula  or  set  of  formulas.  But  one  other 
factor  does  something  to  explain  it — his  Southern 

37 


fSt'^EL.*^ 


93S 


BEATING    BACK 

blood.  The  historians  of  the  old  West  have,  it  seems 
to  me,  ignored  the  part  which  the  Southerner  played 
in  making  that  curious,  manly,  half-civilization  which 
grew  up  in  the  West  and  Southwest  during  the  fifty 
years  after  the  war.  Burning  with  the  chagrin  of 
defeat,  convinced  of  the  justice  in  their  lost  cause, 
stripped  of  their  slaves  and  property,  born  or  reared 
among  the  hideous  disorders  of  a  devastating  war, 
they  brought  West  not  only  their  courage,  their 
chivalry,  their  sentiments,  but  also  their  belief  in 
the  duello  as  a  corrective  of  social  disorder,  and  their 
resentment  against  the  transition  from  a  feudal  state 
to  an  industrial  one.  To  this  type  Al  Jennings  had 
bred  true.  Not  least  of  all  its  traits,  in  him,  was  the 
passionate  clan  feeling  which  led,  by  the  road  of 
tragedy,  to  the  overturn  of  his  whole  nature. 

Jennings  expressed  all  this  to  me  in  another  way. 
He  was  talking  of  his  ancestors.  The  first  American 
Jennings,  family  tradition  holds,  was  Wilham,  a 
brother  to  Sir  Humphrey  Jennings,  once  an  official 
at  the  Court  of  George  HI,  later  a  founder  of  the 
English  iron  trade  and  the  unconscious  cause  of 
that  chancery  suit  which  Dickens  made  immortal  in 
Jarndyce  vs.  Jarndyce.  William  Jennings  was 
supercargo  of  a  trading  vessel  owned  by  his  brother. 
Just  before  the  Revolution  some  insult  of  the  govern- 
ment turned  him  against  Great  Britain.     He  sailed 

38 


INTRODUCING   MR.    JENNINGS 

forth  on  the  high  seas  and  began  to  j)rey  on  British 
commerce.  The  colonies,  when  the  war  broke  out, 
gave  him  a  commission,  and  rewarded  him,  when  the 
war  was  over,  by  a  land  grant  in  the  valley  of  Vir- 
ginia, lie  was  great-great-grandfather  to  Al  Jen- 
nings. Through  his  mother's  family  Al  inherits  a 
streak  of  royal  Stuart  blood. 

"That  high,  proud,  overbearing  blood  has  a  lot 
to  do  with  the  way  I  acted,"  said  Al  Jennings. 
"When  such  people  are  picked  on  they  believe  in 
their  bones  that  it's  right  to  tear  up  the  whole  earth 
to  get  even." 

Here  the  historian  rests ;  from  this  point  the  story 
will  be  an  autobiography,  expressed  in  many  of  the 
crucial  passages  exactly  as  he  talked  it  off  to  me  in 
Oklahoma  City,  with  the  stenographer  alternately 
chuckling  and  sobbing  over  her  notes. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    LONG    RIDERS 

WHEN  I  tell  how  the  events  of  a  single 
night  transformed  me  from  a  lawyer  to 
an  enemy  of  the  law  I  shall  fail,  I  sup- 
pose, to  convince  Eastern  people  and  all  others 
brought  up  in  a  regular,  ordered  state  of  society. 
To  understand,  such  people  would  have  to  know  the 
game  as  we  played  it  in  the  old  West.  It  will  be 
all  the  harder  for  me  to  convince  them,  in  that  the 
beginning  of  my  story  involves  feelings  too  deep  and 
sacred  for  expression  on  paper.  Further,  the  deci- 
sion in  the  case  of  Oklahoma  Territory  vs.  Jack 
Love  and  Temple  Houston  prevents  me  from  giving 
fully  my  side  of  the  tragedy.  I  must  keep  to  the 
facts,  bare  though  they  may  seem. 

After  I  lost  my  county  attorneyship  at  El  Reno 
I  drifted  for  six  months,  dividing  my  time  between 
the  towns  and  the  cattle  ranches,  while  I  looked  for 
a  good  location  to  resume  the  law.  My  family  had 
settled  at  Woodward,  a  new  Oklahoma  town,  where 

40 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

father  was  county  judge  and  Ed  and  John  were 
practicing.  I  was  paying  them  a  visit  when  Ed  got 
a  large  and  interesting  case. 

Frank  Garst  had  brought  eighteen  hundred  head 
of  C-Dot-G  cattle  into  Oklahoma  and  put  them  out 
to  pasture  on  a  range  held  under  fence  by  Jack 
Love.  When  the  time  for  payment  came,  Garst  and 
Love  had  a  dispute  over  the  pasturage  fees.  Garst 
consulted  Ed,  who  found  that  Jack  Love  held  no 
title  to  that  pasturage — he  had  fenced  government 
land.  By  advice  of  counsel,  Garst  refused  payment 
and  moved  his  cattle.  Love  sued  out  an  attachment; 
and  on  this  process  Garst  and  Love  locked  horns  in 
court.  Ed  was  Garst's  attorney  of  record,  while 
Temple  Houston  represented  Love.  The  trial,  which 
I  witnessed  as  a  spectator,  became  very  bitter.  Ed 
won  a  complete  victory — he  had  all  the  law  on  his 
side.  Both  Love  and  Houston  took  the  decision 
hard. 

A  week  later  Ed  defended  some  boys  for  stealing 
from  a  box  car.  Being  busy,  he  asked  me  to  assist 
liim  at  the  trial.  There  we  bumped  again  into  Tem- 
ple Houston,  who  was  assisting  the  prosecution. 
Jack  Love,  for  some  reason  or  other,  was  a  specta- 
tor at  this  trial.  Houston,  by  sneers  and  indirect 
references,  showed  that  he  was  still  bitter.  His  atti- 
tude got  on  my  nerves.     My  temper  suddenly  flamed 

41 


BEATING    BACK 

up,  and  I  called  him  a  liar.  He  replied  by  calling 
me  another  liar,  with  additions;  then  he  jumped  to- 
ward me.  Ed  came  between  and  slapped  his  face. 
Court  adjourned  in  great  confusion.  The  town  of 
Woodward  knew  all  about  the  bad  blood  between 
Jack  Love  and  Temple  Houston  on  one  side  and  the 
Jennings  brothers  on  the  other.  Moreover,  Love 
and  Houston  were  notoriously  handy  with  guns, 
while  I  myself  had  some  such  reputation.  So  every 
one  expected  shooting  before  morning.  Neverthe- 
less, after  my  father  talked  to  me  and  showed  me 
that  I  had  put  him  in  a  ticklish  position,  I  cooled 
down  a  little  and  promised  to  patch  it  up.  However, 
Temple  Houston  was  drinking  heavily  that  night 
and  in  no  condition  to  hear  reason.  I  told  father 
that  I'd  catch  Houston  at  the  courthouse  door  next 
morning,  present  my  apologies  and  await  his.  In 
the  mean  time  home  was  the  only  place  for  a  Jen- 
nings. Meeting  Ed  on  the  street,  I  asked  him  to  find 
John  and  bring  him  in.  Then  I  went  home  and  lay 
down  to  wait  for  them.  It  was  a  hot  night  and  I  fell 
asleep. 

I  was  awakened  by  some  one  calling  outside : 
"Judge!     Get  up  quick!     Your  boys  are  killed!" 
I  ran  to  the  door.     John  was  just  coming  through 
the  gate,  bleeding. 

"I  am  all  right,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "but  go  to 
42 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

Garvey's.  Houston  and  Love  have  killed  Ed."  How 
I  got  to  Garvey's  saloon  I  don't  know.  A  crowd  sur- 
rounded the  place  and  the  barroom  was  deserted. 
But  the  back  room  was  full.  I  shoved  people  aside 
and  got  to  Ed.  He  had  been  shot  twice — once  in 
the  back  of  the  head,  once  over  the  left  ear.  I  took 
his  head  in  my  lap,  and  there  he  breathed  his  last. 

Before  they  took  me  away  the  change  in  my  na- 
ture had  come  over  me.  Looking  down  into  Ed's 
face,  I  swore  to  give  up  everything  and  kill  those 
two  men. 

The  day  after  we  buried  Ed,  Frank  came  from 
Denver.  He  found  John  delirious,  trying  in  his  rav- 
ings to  tell  us  how  it  happened.  My  father  sat  be- 
side him,  dumb  with  grief.  Frank  felt  exactly  as  I 
did.    He  told  me  so. 

But  our  father  was  county  judge.  KnoTring  what 
we  had  in  mind,  he  begged  us  for  his  sake  to  let  the 
law  take  its  course.  There  was  a  special  reason  at 
the  time.  John's  wounds  had  become  infected.  He 
lay  in  danger  of  his  life.  Father  asked  us  whether, 
with  one  of  his  boys  dead  and  another  dying,  we 
wanted  to  pile  a  new  tragedy  on  him.  At  last  we 
promised. 

We  did  not  dare  trust  ourselves  in  Woodward, 
where  Love  and  Houston,  as  soon  as  they  got  out  on 
bail,  would  offer  continual  temptation.     As  things 

43 


BEATING    BACK 

stood  I  was  certain  that  justice  was  going  to  fail 
us,  and  I  determined  to  put  myself  clean  away  from 
temptation.  The  night  when  the  doctors  pro- 
nounced John  out  of  danger,  Frank  and  I  saddled 
our  horses,  took  what  money  we  had,  and  rode  away 
toward  Southern  Oklahoma,  intending  to  establish 
among  the  outlaws  some  base  from  which,  if  the 
time  ever  came,  we  could  make  our  raid  and  kill 
those  two  men.  From  that  time  forth,  as  I  know 
now,  we  were  outlaws  in  spirit.  The  rest  came  as 
gradually  and  easily  as  sliding  down  hill. 

We  went  first  to  the  Morris  ranch.  There  I  made 
my  first  friend  among  the  bandits — one  Jim  Hughes, 
a  rough,  game  man,  formerly  an  outlaw.  Ben 
Hughes,  a  brother  of  Jim,  and  one  Jud  South  were 
in  the  Federal  jail  at  Fort  Smith,  charged  with  kill- 
ing an  Indian  deputy  marshal  named  Naked  Head. 
Jim  Hughes  asked  me,  as  a  lawyer,  to  help  his 
brother  out.  I  had  never  intended  to  practice  law 
again,  but  I  could  not  refuse  this  favor  to  a  friend. 
We  rode  into  Arkansas,  camping  out  as  we  went. 
Concealing  my  true  name,  I  assisted  his  attorney  of 
record,  and  got  both  men  acquitted.  All  this  drew 
me  one  stage  deeper  into  outlaw  society. 

Also  it  led  to  an  adventure  consummated  months 
later  when  I  myself  was  on  the  dodge.  Ben  Hughes 
had  for  cell  mate  in  the  Arkansas  jail  one  Jim  Cash, 

44 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

a  robber,  charged  witli  murder.  The  case  against 
him  was  so  strong  that  he  never  stood  a  chance,  and 
he  went  to  the  gallows.  The  condemned  man  told 
Ben  Hughes  where  he  had  buried  seven  thousand 
dollars  in  stolen  money — gave  him  a  map  and  full 
directions.  The  next  spring  a  party  of  us — all 
wanted  by  the  law — went  hunting  for  this  buried 
treasure.  We  camped,  leaving  a  negro  to  guard  our 
horses.  The  map  was  perfectly  plain ;  we  found 
the  place  according  to  directions,  and  began  to  dig 
under  a  flat  rock.  Before  we  had  got  down  a  foot 
we  heard  a  shot.  We  grabbed  our  guns,  crawled 
to  the  bushes,  and  surveyed  the  camp.  It  looked 
peaceable,  and  we  rushed  in  for  our  horses.  We 
found  the  negro  rolling  and  moaning  with  pain.  He 
had  got  to  monkeying  with  a  loaded  revolver,  and, 
not  understanding  guns,  had  shot  himself  in  the  foot. 
We  were  patching  him  up  when  we  spied  a  body  of 
marshals  looking  for  gentlemen  answering  to  our 
description.  When  the  subsequent  episode  was  fin- 
ished we  found  ourselves  miles  from  the  treasure  and 
afraid  to  go  back.  If  that  seven  thousand  dollars 
ever  existed,  it  may  be  there  yet.  And  there  it  will 
stay,  for  all  of  me. 

However,  this  treasure  hunt  happened  long  after 
my  return  to  Indian  Territory.  At  the  time  John 
Harless  owned  the  Spike-S  ranch — so  called  from  its 

45 


BEATING    BACK 

trand — near  the  junction  of  Snake  Creek  and  Duck 
Creek  in  the  Creek  nation.  Harless  was  a  cattleman 
with  a  habit  of  rustling  other  people's  live  stock. 
The  Spike-S  ranch,  in  fact,  was  a  rendezvous  for 
"long  riders,"  as  we  used  to  call  them — train  rob- 
bers, bank  robbers,  and  raiders.  These  people  were 
aristocrats  in  the  territorial  underworld,  looking 
down  on  plain  horse  thieves,  brand  blotters,  and 
whiskey  peddlers.  The  rode  the  best  horses  in  the 
country,  for  their  lives  depended  on  the  speed  and 
endurance  of  their  mounts.  I  cannot  fully  describe 
the  people  whom  I  met  at  the  Spike-S,  because  in 
this  story  I  will  give  away  no  secrets  but  my  own. 
Some  were  men  of  good  education,  driven  out  from 
society,  as  I  had  been,  by  tragedy.  Some  were  born 
killers.  Some  were  products  of  the  Eastern  slums. 
But  they  were  all  distinguished  by  their  nerve  and 
daring,  which  accounts,  I  suppose,  for  the  fact  that 
the  horse  thieves  and  whiskey  peddlers,  together  with 
a  great  many  people  who  never  turned  a  criminal 
trick  in  their  lives,  would  always  protect  them 
against  marshals. 

The  Spike-S  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  ranches 
in  the  Territory.  Mrs.  Harless  had  planted  a  flower 
garden  and  a  peach  orchard;  Harless  had  put  up  a 
big  red  barn  which  was  a  landmark.  Three  or  four 
miles  south  lay  a  little  mountain  range,  wooded  with 

46 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

chestnut  and  cedar  trees,  and  to  the  east  a  heavy 
thicket  covered  the  bottoms  of  Duck  Creek.  Once 
in  the  mountains,  jou  could  laugh  at  the  marshals, 
and  no  man  who  wasn't  an  outlaw  or  a  friend  dared 
enter  the  thicket — it  was  too  good  a  place  for  an 
ambush. 

Jack  Love  and  Temple  Houston  had  not  yet  come 
to  trial  when  Frank  and  I  determined  to  locate  on 
the  Spike-S.  I  borrowed  three  thousand  dollars 
from  a  friend,  and  invested  it  in  cattle  with  Harless. 
So  for  a  few  months  we  hung  around  the  ranch, 
lending  a  hand  with  the  cattle  and  studying  outlaw 
customs.  During  this  period  the  boys  pulled  off 
two  or  three  jobs.  I  knew  exactly  how  they  were 
done,  and  I  was  always  invited  to  go  along;  but  I 
laughed  and  declined.  The  outlaws  told  me  they 
would  get  me  yet.    They  were  right. 

In  January,  1896,  I  learned  that  my  father 
was  at  Tecumseh;  and  I  rode  down  to  see  him. 
When  he  came  to  the  door  he  seemed  surprised  and 
dazed. 

"My  God,  Al!"  he  said,  "what  are  you  trying  to 
do?     Do  you  mean  to  disgrace  our  name.'*" 

I  asked:  "What  do  you  mean?"  and  he  an- 
swered : 

"Don't  you  know  that  they  are  hunting  you  for 
train  robbery?     That  Norman  job."     A  train  had 

47 


BEATING    BACK 

been  held  up  at  Norman  a  few  weeks  before,  though 
I  didn't  know  it  then. 

Of  course  I  denied  the  charge.  He  asked  me  why 
I  didn't  give  myself  up  and  stand  trial.  I  wouldn't, 
for  several  reasons — mainly  my  difficulty  in  proving 
an  alibi,  in  case  they  framed  up  testimony  against 
me.  For  when  Father  told  me  the  date  of  the  rob- 
bery, and  I  ran  back  over  the  past  few  weeks,  I 
realized  that  I  had  spent  all  that  day  with  the  out- 
laws on  the  Spike-S.  None  of  those  men  could  be 
dragged  ahve  into  a  court  of  justice. 

Father  and  I  parted  bad  friends.  I  rode  all  that 
night,  with  my  hatred  for  the  world  swelling  in  me. 
Next  morning  I  pulled  up  at  a  little  country  store  to 
buy  some  crackers  and  cheese  for  breakfast.  Three 
or  four  heavily  armed  m.en  stood  about  watching  me. 
Whether  they  were  marshals  or  long  riders,  I  did 
not  know  nor  greatly  care.  I  finished  my  breakfast, 
mounted,  and  started  away.  I  hadn't  ridden  two 
hundred  yards  when  the  whole  crowd  opened  on  me 
with  Winchesters.  My  horse  went  down  dead,  and 
I  got  a  bullet  in  the  right  ankle. 

Bad  as  my  temper  is,  I  have  never  known  such 
anger  as  I  felt  at  that  moment.  It  is  literally  true 
that  I  saw  everything  red.  I  jerked  my  Winchester 
from  the  scabbard  and  ran  toward  them,  firing 
blind — trying  to  mow  them  all  down  with  one  shot. 

48 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

If  they  had  been  real  killers  they  could  have  got  me 
a  dozen  times,  for  all  my  shots  were  going  wild.  As 
it  was,  they  and  the  storekeeper  ran  into  the  timber. 
I  rushed  through  the  store  looking  for  some  one  to 
kill.     It  was  deserted. 

There,  in  the  spirit  of  a  fellow  who  misses  a  man 
and  kicks  his  dog,  I  committed  my  first  crime.  They 
took  me  for  a  criminal.  Very  well,  I  would  sliow 
them !  I  smashed  the  cash  drawer  with  the  butt  of 
my  gun,  robbed  it  of  twenty-seven  dollars  and  fifty 
cents,  mounted  a  horse  which  stood  hitched  by  the 
door,  and  rode  away.  I  hadn't  thouglit  of  my  ankle 
until  I  saw  my  stirrup  dripping  with  blood.  I  found 
a  puff  ball,  which  is  first  aid  to  the  injured  in  the 
West,  and  managed  to  stop  the  bleeding.  When  I 
rode  into  the  Spike-S,  they  tell  me,  I  was  as  pale  as 
a  sheet.  I  don't  know  yet  whether  it  was  from  loss 
of  blood  or  from  anger.  The  boys  wei'c  eating  sup- 
per around  a  camp  fire.  I  told  them  what  I  had 
done. 

They  didn't  appear  surprised.  I  can  see  yet  the 
cynical  smiles  on  their  brown  faces.  The  worst 
killer  of  the  lot  spoke  up,  and  said : 

"Pretty  soon  the  law  will  be  looking  for  a  little 
fellow  about  the  size  of  you!" 

"They  can  look !"  I  said. 

"I  guess  you'll  join  us  now!"  said  the  killer. 
49 


BEATING    BACK 

"I'm  with  you  until  doomsday,"  I  said. 

I  had  forgotten  Frank,  until  he  found  me  alone 
out  behind  the  barn. 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Al?"  he  asked. 

"I  sure  mean  it,"  I  said.  "You  can  do  what  you 
please." 

"Then  I'm  with  you.  Old  Sox,"  he  said.  To  the 
end  Frank  followed  the  game  mostly  because  I  was 
in  it,  and  he  wouldn't  leave  me.  He  never  had  a  real 
liking  for  outlaw  life,  and  he  tried  at  intervals  to 
make  me  quit.  Not  that  he  wasn't  game — he  is  the 
bravest,  coolest  fighter  I  ever  knew. 

Four  days  afterward  we  went  on  our  first  train 
robbery. 

I  started  this  story  with  the  intention  of  telling 
every  crime  which  I  ever  committed.  There  is  no 
reason  why  I  shouldn't,  if  I  were  the  only  person  to 
be  considered.  The  statute  of  limitations  has  run 
on  my  offences,  and  I  couldn't  make  my  old  reputa- 
tion worse  by  setting  down  everything  I  know.  But, 
as  I  think  over  these  affairs  in  detail,  I  keep  coming 
on  other  people's  part  in  them.  Not  one  job  but  in- 
volves some  man  who  has  given  up  the  game  and  gone 
to  live  far  away,  unsuspected  by  his  neighbors,  or 
some  woman  who  is  happily  married  and  out  of  touch 
with  outlaw  society.  So  I  must  be  indefinite  about 
the  actual  robberies  in  those  early  days.    In  the  last 

50 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

few  months  of  my  outlaw  years  I  did  things  which 
involve  me  alone  or  which  have  been  aired,  to  the 
smallest  bit  of  evidence,  in  court.  These  I  shall  re- 
late in  order. 

But  I  can  tell  about  that  first  robbery,  because  it 
never  came  off.  As  usual,  we  had  learned  from  pri- 
vate sources  that  a  large  sum  was  to  be  shipped  into 
the  Territory  by  express.  We  picked  out  a  siding 
where  the  train  must  stop  for  water — but  we  took 
no  chances  on  its  running  past.  We  planned  to 
make  the  flagman  signal  for  a  stop,  and  to  build  a 
barrier  of  ties  across  the  track,  so  that  the  engineer, 
seeing  them,  would  slow  up.  Five  of  us  went  on  that 
job. 

It  was  a  pitch-dark  night.  We  crossed  the  rail- 
road to  a  small  grove  which  looked  like  a  black 
smudge  against  the  skyline.  In  the  densest  part  of 
the  thicket  we  tied  our  horses.  The  boys  took  off 
their  coats  and  closed  about  me  with  the  garments 
spread  out,  while  I  lit  a  match  and  looked  at  my 
watch.  The  snapping  of  the  lid,  as  I  shut  it, 
sounded  to  me  like  a  cannon  shot.  It  was  forty  min- 
utes until  the  train  was  due — little  time  enough  to 
complete  our  arrangements.  In  absolute  silence,  ex- 
cept for  the  clinking  of  our  spurs  and  the  creaking 
of  a  new  cartridge  belt,  we  reached  the  railroad 
tracks  and  passed  on  to  a  bridge. 

61 


BEATING    BACK 

I  was  all  nerves  and  apprehension — I  admit  that 
now.  I  remember  looking  up  to  the  sky  and  seeing 
a  long,  black  cloud  which  obscured  the  stars  and 
seemed  to  follow  us  as  we  walked.  I  felt  uneasy 
about  that  cloud.  I  stopped  to  look  at  it.  Then, 
realizing  that  I  had  fallen  behind,  and  fearing  that 
the  men  might  josh  me,  I  pushed  on.  Now  a  dread 
of  cowardice  took  possession  of  my  soul,  and  I 
rushed  ahead  of  my  comrades.  Then  a  weakness 
came  over  me.  It  seemed  that  my  joints  must  surely 
give  way  beneath  the  weight  of  my  body.  As  I 
looked  down  through  the  ties  and  saw  the  stars  diz- 
zily reflected  in  the  black,  swirling  water,  I  had  a 
sinking  heaviness  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach.  It  was 
such  an  amazing  heaviness  that  I  couldn't  see  how  I 
could  go  further.  I  made  a  misstep,  and  my  leg 
slipped  between  the  ties.  Some  one  gripped  me  and 
got  me  onto  my  feet.  The  action  steadied  me.  The 
clouds  kept  following.  The  iron  bridge  rods  above 
looked  like  prison  bars.  I  finished  with  my  eyes 
straight  ahead.  We  made  a  turn;  before  us  was  the 
tub-like  hulk  of  the  water  tank,  and  near  it  the  light 
of  a  window  pierced  the  darkness.  What  if  a  sheriff 
with  his  force  were  waiting  behind  that  light.'' 

We  halted  and  held  a  conference  in  whispers.  Two 
of  my  companions  sneaked  away.  They  came  back, 
supporting  between  them  an  old  Irishman,  who  stag- 

52 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

gered  dizzily  and  begged  them  to  "go  easy"  with 
him.  When  they  halted  him  before  us,  I  could  hear 
his  teeth  chattering.  In  fact,  we  had  to  joke  with 
him  and  reassure  him  before  he  gathered  enough 
nerve  to  take  orders. 

"You  stand  here,"  our  leader  said.  "If  she  whis- 
tles for  water,  do  nothing.  If  she  don't,  you  stop 
her." 

The  Irishman  started  to  take  his  lantern  out  from 
under  his  coat.  Some  one  shoved  a  gun  in  his  face, 
and  he  nearly  collapsed,  so  that  we  had  to  let  him 
light  his  pipe,  under  cover  of  our  bodies,  in  order  to 
get  his  nerve  back.  Meanwhile  two  of  the  boys  had 
laid  a  half  dozen  ties  across  the  track  where  the 
engineer  would  see  them  by  his  headlight. 

Then  came  the  rhythmic  quiver  of  the  rails.  The 
train  was  on  time. 

The  leader  ordered  us  to  our  places.  I  was  to 
take  the  opposite  side  of  the  track  and  begin  shoot- 
ing at  the  windows  as  soon  as  she  stopped. 

I  got  my  place.  The  tree-tops  suddenly  flashed 
yellow.  A  fiery  eye  had  dodged  round  the  curve. 
With  the  first  flash  of  their  headlight  the  gang  dis- 
appeared as  though  by  magic — every  man  had 
dropped  to  the  ground. 

The  regular  clicking  of  the  wheels  over  the  rail 
joints  came  to  me  as  I  lay  there.     It  seemed  to  me 

53 


BEATING    BACK 

that  this  vibration  had  become  communicated  to  m  v 
body.  My  nerves  twitched  with  it,  my  flesh  quivered 
with  it.  My  scalp  tightened  on  my  head,  and  I 
couldn't  keep  my  revolvers  from  shaking  in  my 
hands.  What  would  happen  in  the  next  few  minutes 
surged  through  my  mind — curses,  commands,  shots, 
shattered  glass,  cries,  perhaps  bloodshed,  even  death- 

The  lantern  began  to  swing.  The  train  did  not 
slacken  its  speed.  The  Irishman  signaled  madly 
and  for  his  hfe;  still  it  went  on.  There  was  a  blaze 
of  windows  in  my  face.  It  passed  me,  raising  a  suck- 
ing wind.  Then  I  saw  Little  Dick  rear  up  beside  me, 
waving  his  revolvers  and  yelling  so  that  I  heard  him 
over  the  racket: 

"My  God — the  women  and  children !  She'll  be 
wrecked !" 

That  was  the  first  I'd  thought  of  our  barricade, 
and  it  froze  me  to  stone.  The  cowcatcher  struck 
the  ties,  tossed  them  this  way  and  that,  and  the  train 
went  on,  unharmed.  I  learned  a  lesson  there.  Never 
again  did  I  build  a  barricade  before  a  train.  We 
were  not  out  to  slaughter  the  innocent. 

The  killer  of  our  outfit  wanted  to  shoot  the  Irish- 
man, believing  he'd  given  a  secret  signal  for  the  train 
to  go  by.  We  closed  about  him  and  tore  him  away. 
It  wasn't  the  Irishman's  fault.  You  could  see  by 
the  way  he  swung  the  lantern  that  he  was  sincere. 

54 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

I  never  quite  understood  this  affair.  It  doesn't  seem 
possible  that  the  engineer  could  have  failed  to  see 
both  the  signal  and  the  barricade.  Most  likely  he 
had  received  a  tip  somehow  that  we  were  after  the 
treasure,  and  had  taken  a  chance. 

When  we  went  on  our  next  job,  I  was  leader  of  the 
long-rider  gang  which  operated  from  the  Spike-S. 
Just  how  that  came  about  I  can't  exactly  tell,  un- 
less it  was  a  matter  of  the  trained  mind.  When  it 
came  to  the  pinch  you  could  count  on  them  for  cour- 
age and  action ;  but  few  of  them — except  Frank,  of 
course — could  go  very  far  in  mapping  out  a  raid. 
As  a  lawyer,  I  was  accustomed  to  look  at  any  propo- 
sition from  every  side.  I  could  not  only  plan  a  rob- 
bery, but  I  could  prepare  get-aways  and  alibis — 
provide  for  every  contingency.  A  train  robbery 
needs  a  directing  head  as  much  as  a  battle.  From 
the  time  when  we  started  on  a  raid  until  we  eluded 
the  marshals  and  scattered  with  the  "dinero,"  I  had 
absolute  authority  over  my  gang. 

After  all,  one  train  robbery  is  much  like  another. 
There  are  two  ways  of  going  at  it.  Under  the  old 
method,  used  always  by  the  Dalton  boys,  two  of  the 
gang  mount  the  forward  end  of  the  baggage  car  a 
station  down  the  Une.  When  the  train  starts  they 
crawl  over  the  tender,  hold  up  the  engineer  and  fire- 
man, and  force  them  to  make  a  stop  at  the  point 

55 


BEATING    BACK 

where  the  rest  of  the  gang  is  waiting.  But  if  the 
trainmen  have  a  heavy  consignment  in  the  express 
car,  and  therefore  expect  to  be  robbed,  they  watch 
that  baggage  platform;  you  risk  a  complete  fizzle. 
We  used  another  method.  We  picked  a  point  where 
the  train  had  to  stop  for  water,  or  else  we  held  up 
a  signal  man  and  made  him  "flag  her."  As  soon  as 
the  train  stopped,  part  of  the  gang  would  begin  a 
fusillade  from  both  hands  in  order  to  cow  the  passen- 
gers and  the  crew.  If  a  passenger  shoved  his  head 
out  of  the  window,  we  would  smash  the  glass  over 
his  head.  In  the  meantime  two  of  the  gang  would 
attend  to  the  engine,  one  keeping  the  engineer  and 
fireman  covered  until  the  other  turned  water  into 
the  firebox.  When  that  was  done  one  remained  with 
the  trainmen,  while  the  other  went  back  to  help  in 
the  actual  robbery.  Though  we  sometimes  went 
through  the  passengers,  the  express  safe  was  always 
our  real  object — we  never  robbed  a  train  unless  we 
had  a  tip  on  a  large  sum  of  money.  There  isn't 
very  much  in  robbing  the  passengers.  You  can't 
watch  them  all.  At  the  first  fire  the  big  wads  of 
money  and  the  valuable  jewelry  generally  go  under 
the  seats  or  behind  the  steam  pipes.  Mostly,  you 
get  only  watches,  trinkets,  and  small  change. 

Occasionally  the  express  messenger  showed  fight, 
but  a  few  bullets  just  over  his  head  always  stopped 

56 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

him.  Then,  with  one  of  mj  coolest  men,  I  would 
attend  to  the  express  safe.  Sometimes  we  made  the 
messenger  open  it;  generally  we  blew  it  with  giant 
powder.  We'd  empty  the  contents  into  sacks,  fan 
a  few  shots  around  the  train  for  a  warning,  and  get 
to  our  horses. 

People  were  so  dazed  that  they  acted  like  trained 
dogs.  Really,  robbing  a  train  is  easy.  The  element 
of  surprise  favors  the  robbers.  The  hard  and  dan- 
gerous part  comes  afterward,  when  the  trainmen 
start  up  the  marshals  and  vigilantes,  and  the  whole 
country  seems  roused  against  you.  I've  seen  a  dis- 
trict alive  with  armed  men  an  hour  after  the  rob- 
bery. We  generally  held  together  for  a  day  or  so. 
Then,  when  we'd  got  clean  through  the  cordon,  we'd 
scatter,  making  an  appointment,  often  for  months 
ahead,  to  meet  for  the  next  robbery.  Generally  I'd 
pass  the  intervening  time  among  the  cattle  ranches 
in  another  part  of  the  Territory.  Frank  used  to  loaf 
around  among  the  nesters.  When  we  found  him 
again,  he'd  be  comfortably  settled  down  in  a  farm- 
house, smoking  a  corncob  pipe,  helping  the  women 
wipe  the  dishes,  and  singing  at  the  melodeon  of 
evenings.  He  could  eat  into  the  bosom  of  a  family 
quicker  than  any  other  man  I  ever  knew. 

I  understand  that  people  are  digging  all  over  the 
Creek  nation  for  the  buried  treasure   of  the  Jen- 

57 


BEATING    BACK 

nings  gang.  I  buried  my  treasure  all  right,  but  not 
that  way.  It  used  to  run  through  our  fingers  like 
water.  First,  a  big  wad  went  to  the  territorial  or 
railroad  official  who  had  informed  us  of  the  ship- 
ment. We  had  our  friends  to  take  care  of — they 
were  mostly  poor.  We  thought  nothing,  when  we 
were  flush,  of  throwing  down  a  hundred-dollar  bill 
on  the  table.  Most  of  the  valuables  we  gave  away — 
gold  thimbles  and  brooches  to  the  little  girls,  gold 
watches  to  the  older  people.  I  don't  know  just  where 
the  rest  of  it  went — mostly,  I  suppose,  I  dropped  it 
on  Broadway  or  Wabash  Avenue ;  for  I  used  to  vary 
life  on  the  ranches  by  going  East.  When  the  time 
came  for  the  next  job  we  were  always  broke. 

Our  chief  trouble,  barring  the  escape  from  the 
marshals,  was  in  reassembling.  We  didn't  dare  use 
the  mails.  Most  of  us  went  under  assumed  names. 
I  usually  traveled  as  "Mr.  Edwards,"  and  Frank  as 
"Mr.  Williams."  Sometimes,  when  you  heard  of  a 
chance  for  a  robbery  and  wanted  to  gather  the 
riders,  you  had  to  hunt  for  a  fortnight.  You  knew 
nothing  about  them  except  their  regular  haunts,  and 
even  then  you  were  hardly  ever  right.  One  such 
hunt  I  shall  always  remember  for  its  finish. 

We  had  scattered  at  the  22  ranch,  after  a  hot 
pursuit  by  the  marshals,  and  I  was  knocking  around 
among  the  horse  thieves  and  ranchers  on  the  Chicka- 

58 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

saw,  when  I  heard  news  of  a  chance  for  a  reasonably 
good  haul.  I  knew  where  I  could  lay  my  hands  on 
the  rest  of  the  boys,  but  I  wanted  especially  a  cer- 
tain long  rider  whom  I'll  call  Webb.  He  was  a  very 
reticent  man,  and  I  knew  little  of  his  past,  except 
that  he  came  from  the  East  and  had  a  good  educa- 
tion. Between  jobs  he  had  a  gentle  and  sentimental 
nature.    In  action  he  was  absolutely  deadly. 

The  last  heard  of  Webb — so  "Mex,"  one  of  our 
long  riders,  informed  me — he  was  at  "Perky's"  on 
Mud  Creek.  He  described  "Perky's"  place  as  a  lit- 
tle long  house  with  a  stone  chimney  which  had  fallen 
away  from  the  wall  and  been  propped  up  by  a  log. 
Mud  Creek  was  a  dangerous  country  for  anyone  con- 
nected with  the  law.  A  good  many  deputy  marshals 
had  been  killed  there  for  prying  into  matters  which 
didn't  concern  them.  Perky  himself  was  a  horse 
thief. 

I  found  at  last  the  house  with  the  leaning  chim- 
ney. A  man  was  digging  in  the  little  cotton  patch — 
striking  a  few  strokes,  then  looking  round.  I  asked 
him  if  he  was  Perky.     He  said : 

"No,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  fellow." 

I  was  sure  of  him  nevertheless ;  so  I  told  him  I 
was  looking  for  Webb. 

He  said:  "Who  Webb?" 

I  answered:  "Just  Webb." 
59 


BEATING    BACK 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Did  you  know  Mex?"  I  asked. 

He  stopped  digging  right  there,  and  asked:  "Do 
jou?" 

"Sure.     I  just  left  him  on  Winter  Creek,"  I  said. 

"I  reckon  I  know  who  you  are  now,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  I  did,  and  then  I  waren't  certain.  You're 
Al,  ain't  you?    Webb  was  here  yesterday." 

I  was  so  eager  that  I  got  too  sudden.  I  asked: 
"Where  did  he  go?" 

He  grew  suspicious  again,  and  said:     "If  you're 

Al,  you  oughtn't  to  ask  me  that  question.     By , 

I  don't  know  whether  you're  Al  or  not !" 

"I  can  tell  you  just  how  he  looks  and  what  he  was 
riding,"  I  said. 

He  said:  "Any  fellow  can  do  that.  You  get 
down  and  come  in.  We  ain't  got  much,  but  the  old 
woman  can  scare  up  something."  It  was  an  hour 
before  I  persuaded  him  that  I  was  really  Al  Jen- 
nings. Then  he  told  me  that  Webb  had  gone  on  to 
San  Baker's.  At  Baker's  they  said  that  he  had  left 
the  day  before,  without  telling  where  he  was  bound. 
We  seldom  informed  anyone  of  our  movements. 

I  was  up  against  it.  I  simply  wandered  round  in 
circles,  asking  questions,  until  an  old-time  cow- 
puncher  told  me  that  Webb  was  sparking  a  nester 
girl  over  on  the  Spavinaw. 

60 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  I  hunted  for  four  or 
five  days,  never  more  than  a  few  hours  behind  my 
man  and  never  finding  him.  Finally,  I  heard  that 
a  horse  thief  named  Ike,  present  whereabouts  un- 
known, might  have  the  information  I  wanted.  And 
a  certain  John  Barrows,  of  the  same  occupation, 
offered  to  guide  me  while  I  looked  for  Ike.  We  rode 
to  a  little  cabin  in  a  clearing. 

A  pack  of  fox  hounds  came  out,  barking,  as  we 
drew  up  at  the  front  gate.  Presently  a  head  slid 
through  the  window,  and  this  was  the  conversation 
as  I  recall  it  now: 

"Howdy,  John,"  said  the  head.  "Won't  you  Ught 
and  come  in?  I  didn't  know  who  you  were,  first  off. 
Then  I  seed  it  was  you.     Got  anything  to  swop?" 

"No,  I  reckon  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  swop  to-day. 
Ed,  this  man  is  from  Mex,  an'  he  wants  to  see  Ike. 
I  fetched  him  down,  as  I  reckoned  you'se  about  the 
only  man  who  knowed  where  Ike  was." 

In  silence  Ed  whittled  for  a  time  on  a  splinter 
which  he  had  cut  from  the  window  sill.  Then  he 
spat  impressively  on  the  ground,  and  afterward 
gazed  in  utter  helplessness  at  his  dusty  cotton  patch, 
choked  with  brown  weeds. 

"Don't  know  how  I  can  get  off,  John,"  he  said. 
"My  crop  was  about  took  with  the  consarned  weeds, 
an'  was  awful  backward,  an'  I've  been  layin'  off  for 

61 


BEATING    BACK 

some  time  to  go  horse  huntin'.  I  reckon  I'll  have  to 
swop  that  mare  if  I  ever  get  her  again.  She's 
breachy,  and  there  ain't  no  fence  can  hold  her. 
You'uns  get  off."  He  turned  his  head  up  toward 
the  sun,  and  continued:  "It's  most  too  late  in  the 
day  t'  start  now,  but  I  reckon  I  can  go  to-morrow." 
We  stayed  with  him  that  night.  It  was  morning  be- 
fore Ed  offered  to  take  John's  place  and  guide  me 
to  Ike.  We  started;  we  had  gone  five  or  six  miles 
when  we  saw  a  man  picking  lazily  among  the  cotton 
rows.     Ed  called: 

"Howdy,  Izard!     How's  your  crop  turnin'  out.?" 

With  alacrity  Izard  dropped  his  basket,  ap- 
proached, and  perched  on  the  fence. 

"My  cotton  ain't  what  it  oughter  be,"  he  said. 
"  'Spect  I've  done  let  it  go  too  long.  I'm  powerful 
crowded  with  work,  an'  jes'  ain't  had  time  to  turn 
round." 

"Folks  well?"  asked  Ed. 

"Nothin'  to  brag  of.  Little  Izard's  had  the  agey, 
an'  the  baby's  awful  colicky.  I  ain't  so  powerful 
pert  myself.  Rest  of  'em's  so's  to  be  around,  'cept 
my  woman,  an'  she  ain't  had  a  well  day  since  we  left 
Texas.     Your  folks  well.?" 

"Jes'  tol'able.  Seed  anythin'  of  a  little  bay  mare 
fourteen  an'  a  half  hands  high,  blazed  face,  wire  cut 
on  left  shoulder.?" 

62 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

"Yours?" 

"That's  the  calculation." 

"Wet?"     (Outlaw  slang  for  "stolen.") 

"Sure !" 

"Any  brands?" 

"Yes,  only  they're  blotched.  Looks  kinder  like 
this." 

Sliding  from  his  horse,  Ed  squatted  down  on  his 
spurs  in  the  road  and  began  to  trace  the  design. 
Izard  followed  the  stubby,  rope-stiffened  finger. 
Finally  he  said: 

"Ain't  seed  her,  Ed.  Want  to  swap  her?  I'll 
give  you  a  powerful  good  swop,  sight  unseen." 

"What's  your  swop?" 

"The  one  Vm  huntin" 

Then  they  negotiated.  Ed  wanted  Izard  to  throw 
in  a  pig.  Izard  said  that  he'd  even  up  if  Ed  would 
throw  in  a  pup  which  he  could  get  from  his  brother 
Jim.  They  closed  the  transaction  there,  the  horses 
to  be  delivered  when  found. 

Izard  rose  to  his  feet,  squinted  at  the  sun,  and 
said: 

"It's  most  noon,  fellers.  Ain't  got  much  to  eat, 
but,  sich  as  it  is,  you're  welcome." 

"Jest  ain't  hardly  got  time,"  said  Ed,  faintly  and 
politely;  but  just  the  same  he  sidled  up  the  path  to 
the  house.     By  the  time  we'd  finished  our  fat  bacon, 

63 


BEATING    BACK 

corn  bread,  and  white  butter  we  had  learned  for  cer- 
tain just  where  we  could  find  Ike. 

Ike  lived  much  like  the  others.  Before  he  came  in 
from  the  cotton  patch  Ed  had  pumped  Mrs.  Burton 
to  find  if  there  was  a  horse  trade  in  sight.  As  soon 
as  Ike  arrived  he  and  Ed  fell  into  horse-swapping 
negotiations,  which  lasted  half  an  hour.  When 
he  was  left  alone  with  me,  Ike  grew  communicative. 
I  asked  why  he  didn't  settle  down  on  a  good  farm. 
He  said: 

"Well,  brother,  us  fellers  has  got  to  make  some- 
thing off  our  horses,  an'  o'  course  that  don't  let  us 
stay  long  enough  in  one  place  to  get  a  crop.  Neigh- 
bors is  so  peart  to  go  pryin'  into  a  feller's  business." 

But  he  couldn't  direct  us  to  Webb.  He  passed  us 
on  to  still  another  settler.  "You'll  find  him,"  he 
said,  "in  the  Cherokee  country,  t'other  side  of  Grand 
River.  He  put  in  a  crop  there  this  year,"  he  added 
incidentally. 

All  these  men,  in  fact,  were  horse  thieves  by  pro- 
fession and  horse  traders  by  avocation,  planting  a 
crop,  as  my  host  had  hinted,  only  for  a  blind,  and 
moving  on  when  the  country  got  too  hot.  Keyed 
up  as  I  was  for  another  big  job,  they  both  amused 
and  irritated  me,  but  without  their  assistance  we 
long  riders  could  never  have  existed.  They  did  not 
know  who   I  was,  did  not   care  to  know.     It  was 

64 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

enough  for  them  that  I  was  neither  a  marshal  nor 
an  informer,  but  like  themselves  a  member  of  that 
strange,  secret  order  which  must  keep  itself  fortified, 
bj  mutual  help,  against  the  law. 

And  at  the  ranch  in  the  Cherokee  country — where 
Ed  stayed  to  bring  off  another  horse  trade — I  ran 
hot  upon  the  trail  of  Webb.  He  was  due  that  night 
at  a  nester  dance  on  Col.  Rowe's  ranch,  I  kept  out 
of  sight  all  the  afternoon,  and  rode  up  to  Col.  Rowe's 
at  sunset. 

A  function  of  this  sort  was  a  great  occasion 
among  the  nesters.  The  country  cotillon  leader 
who  organized  the  dance  used  to  mount  his  horse, 
ride  up  to  the  houses  of  the  social  lights  in  the  com- 
munity, and  call  out : 

"Goin'  to  be  a  dance  over  to  Rowe's  Saturday. 
Want  you-uns  to  come.  We  done  got  the  fiddler  all 
right.  You-uns  tell  all  3'ou  see."  And  he  would 
fade  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Before  sunset  the  guests  were  arriving.  The  boys 
romped  in  on  horseback,  whooping  and  riding 
"slanting."  Some  had  pulled  down  their  trousers 
over  their  boots  and  put  on  neckties ;  and  some 
hadn't.  The  girls  came  in  wagons.  They  wore 
bangs  low  over  their  foreheads  and  blue  or  pink  rib- 
bons round  their  waists.  Most  of  them  were  pretty, 
but  all  looked  as  though  they'd  never  worn  a  corset 

65 


BEATING    BACK 

in  their  lives.  These  were  quiet,  law-abiding  people, 
though  now  and  then  the  whiskey-peddling  element 
would  get  mixed  up  with  them  and  start  trouble. 

After  the  crowd  began  to  gather  I  rode  away,  for 
deputy  marshals  sometimes  attend  such  dances. 
When  I  returned,  after  dark,  a  crowd  had  gathered 
around  a  bonfire  in  the  front  yard,  and  the  fiddle 
was  going  inside.  I  tied  my  horse  and  crept  to  an 
open  window.  There,  beside  the  fiddler,  stood  Webb 
in  a  plain  black  suit,  just  looking  on.  I  tried  to  at- 
tract his  attention;  but  he  was  watching  the  girls 
and  listening  to  the  fiddle. 

The  quadrille  had  gone  three  or  four  figures,  and 
the  perspiration  had  started,  when  there  was  a 
whoop  at  the  door  and  the  local  bad  man,  very  drunk, 
burst  in  waving  his  six-shooter  and  announcing  that 
he  was  a  wolf.  The  dance  stopped.  The  women 
screamed  and  crowded  into  the  corner ;  some  of  the 
more  timid  men  followed  them.  The  bad  man  stood 
weaving  on  his  feet,  yelling: 

"You  be good  and  quiet.     I've 

come  to  take  charge  of  this  here  dance !"  He  threw 
up  his  45  and  fired  a  shot  into  the  ceiling.  One  of 
the  lights  went  out,  and  the  floor  cleared,  leaving 
him  in  possession. 

The  desperado  did  a  shuffle  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  his  double  spurs  ringing.     Then  he  spied  the 

66 


THE    LONG    RIDERS 

little  man  in  the  black  suit  who  stood  over  by  the 
music.  When  he  turned  that  way  the  fiddler  nearly 
fell  over  backward. 

"Say,  can  you  dance?"  yelled  the  bad  man. 

Webb  answered  quietly:     "Yes,  I  have  danced!" 

"Then,"  said  the  bad  man,  "hit  the  middle  of  the 
floor  quick,  or  I'll  build  a  blaze  around  you  that  will 
send  you  to  hell !" 

Webb  answered  in  a  voice  so  quiet  that  I  didn't 
know  until  afterward  what  he  said,  which  was : 

"Brother,  you're  taking  the  wrong  view  of  things 
here.  These  people  have  come  to  enjoy  themselves. 
Why  can't  you  let  them  have  a  good  time.'"' 

The  desperado  made  the  mistake  of  taking  Webb's 
low-toned  voice  for  cowardice.  He  swung  round, 
started  to  throw  down  his  gun — and  there  was  a 
flash  and  a  roar.  I  dove  through  the  window,  just 
as  the  other  light  went  out.  When  I  reached  Webb 
he  was  striking  a  match.  The  desperado  lay  on  the 
floor  dead. 

"Got  him  an  inch  from  the  eye,"  said  Webb.  Then 
he  called  to  the  crowd: 

"Drag  this  fellow  out  into  the  yard  and  go  on 
with  the  dance.  He  won't  bother  you  any  more." 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  did  go  on  with  the  dance. 
Rowe's  people  scrubbed  up  the  blood ;  when  we  gal- 
loped away  the  fiddler  was  at  it  again.    No  one  tried 

67 


BEATING    BACK 

to  stop  us,  because  everyone  felt  that  the  desperado 
had  got  his  deserts. 

Next  day — as  I  learned  later — the  marshals  ar- 
rived with  a  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  this  very  des- 
perado on  a  charge  of  whiskey  peddling.  They  took 
the  body  to  town,  announced  that  they  had  killed 
him  while  he  was  resisting  arrest,  and  collected  the 
rewards  for  his  capture. 


CHAPTER    III 

TWO    OUTLAWS 

AFTER  the  affair  at  Col.  Rowe's  we  assembled 
in  our  camp  on  the  Spavinaw,  Waiting 
for  us  there  was  a  long  rider  whom  we  called 
Arizona  or  "Zonie" — I  never  knew  him  by  any  otlier 
name.  He  had  been  with  the  gang  when  I  joined  it 
at  the  Spike-S.  His  past  was  a  mystery.  We  only 
knew  that  he  had  the  appcaran/ie  of  a  Southern 
mountaineer — tall,  wiry,  tow-haired,  and  blue-eyed. 
He  was  illiterate,  hard,  silent,  and  a  constitutional 
killer.  He  had  neither  caution  nor  discretion,  and 
none  of  the  higher  sense  of  things.  In  going  on  a 
train  robbery  I  used  to  fear  him  as  much  as  the  mar- 
shals— I  felt  that  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  until 
he  would  interpret  some  little  notion  as  resistance, 
and  take  the  excuse  to  shoot.  He  gloried  in  slaugh- 
ter. The  only  times  he  ever  talked  much  were  when 
he  described  some  of  his  old  affairs.  None  of  us 
liked  him;  we  kept  him  with  us  partly  because  we 
had  to  hang  together,  and  partly  because  of  his  ab- 
solute nerve.     On  his  side,  he  had  never  liked  Webb 

69 


BEATING    BACK 

— resented  Webb's  refinement  and  sensibilities,  I  sup- 
pose. 

When  Zonie  heard  what  Webb  had  done,  he  sidled 
over  and  for  the  first  time  opened  conversation  with 
him. 

"I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  there  to  see  you  bust  that  fel- 
low," he  said. 

Webb  answered :  "Those  things  are  to  be  regret- 
ted." 

"Well,  I'd  have  shot  him  as  he  came  through  the 
door,"  said  Zonie.  After  that,  he  accepted  Webb 
as  a  man  who  had  won  his  spurs. 

Yet,  before  we  separated  forever,  we  understood 
Zonie  better.     It  came  about  in  this  way: 

We  had  pulled  off  a  job;  we  had  made  our  escape 
after  a  specially  hot  pursuit ;  we  were  dividing  the  loot 
in  a  cabin  where  lived  the  mother  of  a  long  rider.  One 
of  us  sat  cross-legged  before  the  fireplace,  arranging 
the  gold  and  currency  in  five  equal  piles.  And  be- 
side the  fireplace  the  old  woman — a  sympathetic  soul 
who  never  bothered  herself  about  her  son's  business 
— was  performing  a  surgical  operation.  A  marshal 
had  got  Zonie  through  the  forearm,  and  had  escaped 
by  a  miracle  with  his  own  life.  The  bullet  was  still 
in  the  wound,  and  the  old  woman,  pushing  her  steel 
spectacles  down  from  her  forehead,  started  to  ex- 
tract it  with  a  knitting  needle  and  a  pair  of  scissors. 

70 


TWO    OUTLAWS 

During  this  operation  Zonie  showed  by  an  occasional 
click  of  his  teeth  how  niucli  she  hurt  him.  As  we 
ran  over  our  winnings,  and  packed  away  the  money, 
I  noticed  that  he  was  talking  freely  with  her — an 
unusual  thing  for  him.  Before  supper  he  proposed 
that  we  give  the  old  lady  a  little  present.  Each  of 
Hs  threw  a  hundred  dollars  into  the  pile,  and  handed 
it  to  licr  with  a  presentation  speech.  We  made  a 
lively  supper  party.  Everything  had  turned  out 
well,  and  we  were  flush.  Zonie  spoke  up  and  told 
about  some  of  his  train-robbing  experiences — espe- 
cially the  time  when  he  took  a  Bible  and  a  pair  of 
brass  knuckles  from  the  reticule  of  an  old  lady. 
"She  was  so  fond  of  them  knuckles,"  said  Zonie, 
"that  she  wore  them  to  church  of  a  Sunday."  And 
all  this  time  he  was  clicking  his  teeth  with  the  pain 
of  his  wound. 

W^hat  I  had  rather  suspected  became  plain  to  me 
when  we  prepared  to  ride  away.  I  was  in  the  dark 
hall  buckling  on  my  spurs ;  and  I  overheard  a  con- 
versation which  I  record  as  well  as  I  can  after 
eighteen  years.  I  didn't  begin  to  listen  purposely, 
but  when  it  started  I  couldn't  help  myself.  Zonie 
was  sa^nng  to  her: 

"My  mammy  would  be  about  as  old  as  you  and 
maybe  older.  I  never  seed  her  or  pop  either.  They 
was  took  off  with  yaller  fever  down  in  Mississippi, 

71 


BEATING    BACK 

an'  I  was  sent  to  the  poor  fahm.  After  I  got  to  be 
a  chunk  of  a  boy  a  woman  took  me  away.  She 
'lowed  I  was  big  enough  to  pick  cotton.  I  was  pow- 
erful glad  to  go,  for  they  was  always  whoppin'  me 
at  the  fahm,  but  it  was  no  better  whar  I  went.  Them 
folks  kept  right  on  beatin'  me,  until  I  didn't  have 
any  sense.  One  day  'Lige — that's  the  man — 
knocked  me  down  with  a  stick  of  wood,  an'  when  I 
kim  to  it  was  night,  an'  my  head  was  hurtin'  me 
powerful  bad.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  run  away. 
Crawlin'  by  the  door  in  the  dark,  my  hand  hit  the 
butt  of  the  old  shotgun.  I'd  help  cut  the  slugs  to 
load  it  for  geese,  an'  I  knew  it  was  loaded  yet,  for 
we  hadn't  killed  no  geese.  With  that  gun  in  my  hand 
I  couldn't  stop  myself,  I  hated  'Lige  so  bad. 
Mammy,  that  night  I  killed  'Lige  and  ran  off.  An' 
I've  been  bustin  'em  ever  since." 

I  had  looked  upon  Arizona  with  aversion,  regard- 
ing him  as  an  intractable  man  without  pity  for  any 
creature  except  his  horse.  And  here  the  first  sym- 
pathy which  a  woman  ever  showed  him  had  stirred 
up  a  hidden  goodness  in  his  nature.  I  could  see  his 
face  in  the  fire  light.     It  looked  positively  soft. 

The  old  woman  broke  the  silence. 

"Arizona,  you  haven't  been  much  took  care  of," 
she  said. 

"Mammy,"  he  said,  "you're  the  only  human  being 
72 


TWO    OUTLAWS 

that  ever  treated  me  white.  Even  the  boys  I  ride 
with  don't  hke  me,"  wiiich  was  true. 

The  old  woman  took  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and 
said :  "I've  had  three  boys  killed  by  the  officers,  and 
my  husband  was  killed  in  Texas  a  long  time  ago. 
Arizona,  you  can  be  my  boy,  same  as  my  own." 
She  reached  up,  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

He  didn't  reply,  I  suppose  because  he  had  no 
words.  He  just  turned  away,  pulled  his  hat  down 
over  his  eyes,  and  chumped  out  through  the  door. 

We  rode  into  the  mountains,  camped,  made  sure 
that  all  pursuit  was  over,  appointed  a  place  to  meet 
for  the  next  job,  and  prepared  to  scatter.  But  be- 
fore we  left  I  told  the  boys  one  by  one  about  that 
conversation,  and  suggested  that  we  might  be  kinder 
to  Zonie  in  future.  So,  as  we  parted,  each  man  took 
his  hand  and  shook  it  warmly.  He  seemed  greatly 
puzzled.     Then  he  said  in  a  jerky  voice: 

"Fellers,  I  don't  savvy.  Yer  ain't  goin'  to  quit  the 
trail,  are  ye?" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  I.  "We  meet,  according  to  ap- 
pointment, at  Jamison's  on  December  twenty- 
fifth." 

"Then  what're  ye  pumpin'  my  hand  fer?" 

Bill  happened  to  be  impulsive.  He  broke  in  and 
told. 

Zonie  turned  to  his  saddle,  and  mounted.  "I 
73 


BEATING    BACK 

reckon  you  think  I'm  soft,"  he  said.  "So-long — I'll 
meet  you  at  Jamison's." 

I  never  remembered  until  long  after  that  the 
twenty-fifth  of  December,  on  which  we  had  agreed 
to  meet,  was  Christmas  day.  There  are  no  holidays 
on  the  trail.  Frank  and  I  approached  the  Jamison 
ranch  that  night  in  a  downpour  of  rain,  with  the 
mud  up  to  our  horses'  knees.  We  found  the  cotton 
patch  in  the  darkness,  and  made  out  the  clumps  of 
trees  which  marked  the  house;  but  there  was  no 
light.  Hitching  our  horses  to  the  rail  fence,  we  ap- 
proached afoot,  on  our  guard  lest  the  darkness 
meant  an  ambush. 

As  we  climbed  the  low  fence  separating  the  yard 
from  the  cotton  patch,  Frank  stopped  short.  He 
stooped  over;  I  heard  him  give  a  little  "ugh!" 

"It's  a  man — dead!"  he  said.  "I  struck  his 
face !" 

By  sense  of  touch,  I  found  that  Frank  was  right. 
The  face  under  my  hand  was  cold  and  rigid. 

We  crawled  up  to  the  house.  There  was  no  sound 
except  the  water  dripping  from  the  eaves.  Frank 
knocked;  no  response.  Frank  lifted  the  wooden 
latch,  pushed  the  door  ajar;  no  one  stirred.  He 
gave  a  stronger  push;  the  door  yielded  slowly,  as 
though  held  by  some  pressure  within.  We  entered 
together.     Almost  at  my  first  step  I  stumbled  over 

74 


TWO    OUTLAWS 

something  flabby.     Though  it  took  all  my  nerve,  I 
lit  a  match. 

Zonie  was  looking  straight  up  into  my  face,  with 
the  stare  of  the  dead.  His  long,  yellow  hair  lay  in 
a  wet  wisp  across  liis  forehead,  and  there  was  a 
blotch  of  red  foam  between  his  white  teeth.  Other- 
wise he  appeared  as  though  he  had  grown  tired  and 
dropped  down  to  rest. 

It  was  some  time  before  we  decided  to  risk  a  light. 
When  we  had  a  good  blaze  in  the  fireplace  we  saw 
the  marks  of  an  awful  fight.  Zonie's  Winchester  and 
revolvers  were  empty,  and  empty  cartridge  shells  lay 
all  about  him.  The  body  in  the  yard  was  Jamison's ; 
he,  too,  was  riddled.  Who  did  it,  or  just  why,  I 
have  never  kno\Mi.  The  killers  were  probably  vigi- 
lantes— marshals  would  have  carried  off  the  bodies 
to  get  the  reward.    Our  tardiness  had  saved  the  rest. 

So  there  was  the  end  of  Zonie,  the  killer.  How 
many  notches  he  had  on  his  gun  I  never  knew — a 
great  many,  I  suspect.  The  cruelty  which  he  had 
undergone  in  youth,  and  perhaps  a  brain  lesion  from 
that  blow  on  the  head,  made  him  the  wild  man  he  was. 
With  other  surroundings  he  might  have  lived  and 
died  a  friend  to  the  law.  Again  and  again,  in  later 
years,  I  heard  the  same  story  from  convicts.  It  is 
my  firm  conviction  now  that  heredity  counts  little, 
and  environment  much,  in  making  a  criminal. 

75 


BEATING    BACK 

During  my  early  years  on  the  trail  we  had  a  boy 
called  Elmer  in  the  outfit;  and,  as  I  look  back  over 
my  past,  he  is  one  of  my  chief  regrets.  His  father 
had  been  shot  dead  in  a  bank  raid  just  before  I  went 
to  the  Spike-S.  After  I  became  leader  he  heard  of 
his  father's  death.  He  came  up  to  join  us — a  tall, 
blond  boy  of  seventeen  with  a  face  like  a  girl's.  He 
found  the  outfit  at  the  Verdigris  River,  assembling 
for  a  job.  I  hadn't  yet  arrived.  They  told  me  after- 
ward that  when  one  of  the  boys  said,  "I  seen  your 
father  killed,"  Elmer's  lower  jaw  twitched,  and  he 
turned  his  back  on  the  crowd.  When  I  came  they 
had  already  agreed  to  take  him  along. 

I  didn't  like  that;  he  was  too  young.  While  we 
made  preparations  to  start  I  thought  it  over.  If 
I  ordered  him  away  he  would  never  go — I  knew  the 
breed.  So  I  approached  the  subject  indirectly  by 
asking  him  if  he'd  attend  to  a  few  things  around  the 
Spike-S  which  I  hadn't  time  to  look  after — told  him 
I'd  pay  him  with  a  slice  from  the  job.  "I  know 
you  aren't  a  quitter,"  I  said.  "Your  father  was 
game — everybody  knows  that." 

If  I  had  stopped  there  I  might  have  persuaded 
him.     My  mistake  lay  in  pressing  the  point  further. 

"In  the  end,"  I  said,  "this  is  a  losing  game. 
Sooner  or  later  it  winds  up  with  stripes  or  bullets 
or  hemp,  and  all  along  it's  hell  and  high  water." 

76 


TWO    OUTLAWS 

He  felt  that  I  was  challenging  his  nerve.  That 
set  him  in  his  determination,  and  I  couldn't  budge 
him.  The  boys  had  said  he  could  go.  If  I  refused, 
he'd  follow  anyway.  I  remember  he  kept  answering 
me  in  a  phrase  he'd  picked  up  from  Arizona: 

"I'll  be  in  the  first  set !" 

I  gave  up  in  time.  After  all,  it  was  his  own  look- 
out. He  went  with  us ;  and  he  played  his  part  like 
any  of  the  rest.  Yet  he  was  alwaj^s  on  my  mind. 
Again  and  again  I  tried  to  make  him  leave.  He  al- 
ways came  back  to  the  same  argument:  "What  was 
good  enough  for  pappy  is  good  enough  for  me." 

We  were  riding  away  from  our  next  job,  when 
Elmer  showed  the  stuff  in  him.  That  ride  brought 
nothing  especially  exciting;  yet  I  have  always  re- 
membered it,  while  others  which  involved  danger  and 
narrow  escapes  faded  from  mind.  We  finished  and 
started  away  at  about  midnight,  beginning,  as  usual, 
leisurely  enough.  The  country  was  not  yet  roused, 
the  marshals  were  not  yet  abroad,  and  we  wanted  to 
warm  up  our  horses.  For  a  few  miles  we  took  it  at 
an  easy  fox  trot.  Then,  as  soon  as  they  were  warm 
and  breathing  properly  for  the  long  dash,  our 
horses  voluntarily  broke  into  the  measured  cadence 
of  a  gallop.  I  was  riding  Black  Dick,  a  magnificent, 
big,  standard-bred;  and  every  one  of  our  mounts 
could  distance,  in  a  long  or  short  race,  anything 

77 


BEATING    BACK 

which  the  marshals  owned.  The  black  fences  and 
trees,  barns  and  houses  swam  past  us.  When  we 
came  out  of  the  thickly  inhabitatcd  district,  we  be- 
gan to  double  back  or  to  zigzag  by  unfrequented 
paths,  in  order  that  our  trail  might  be  tangled  or 
lost. 

By  and  by  the  fence  posts  were  gray  instead  of 
black.  The  cocks  in  the  distance  began  to  call  from 
farmyard  to  farmyard.  A  coyote  took  up  the  noise ; 
the  eastern  sky  turned  the  color  of  wood  ashes.  We 
drew  rein  at  last  beside  a  thicket — a  dark  and  sinis- 
ter woodland  in  the  dawn  after  that  cold  autumn 
night.  Our  clothes  were  heavy  with  dew,  our  blood 
chilled.  For  a  few  minutes  we  went  stamping  about 
to  get  life  into  our  stiffened,  swollen  muscles.  It  is 
little  wonder  that  we  ached  all  over,  for  we  had  come 
fifty  miles  in  less  than  five  hours.  Then  we  began 
the  operation  which  we  never  neglected,  however  sore 
and  weary  we  might  be.  We  unsaddled,  spread  out 
our  saddle  blankets,  knelt  on  them,  and  thoroughly 
rubbed  down  the  legs  of  our  horses.  Their  delicate 
muscles  must  be  patted  and  kneaded  like  those  of  a 
trained  athlete ;  for  upon  them  our  safety  depended. 
Only  when  we  had  finished  with  the  horses  did  Mex 
speak  up: 

"Say,  kid,  how  about  the  grub?"  In  our  excite- 
ment we  had  eaten  hardly  any  supper.     With  the 

78 


TWO    OUTLAWS 

work  and  exposure  of  the  night,  we  were  ravenous. 
Elmer  had  been  ordered  to  bring  along  rations  for 
one  meal. 

Elmer  turned  his  saddle  over,  and  shook  out  his 
blanket.  The  package  was  gone !  We  could  see 
where  a  worn  saddle  string  had  broken.  The  gang 
swore  in  concert.  Elmer  offered  to  go  back  and 
look  for  the  package;  but  we  couldn't  have  that.  I 
was  most  concerned  of  all.  It  might  be  a  day  before 
we  dared  approach  a  house ;  and  on  empty  stomachs 
the  men  were  likely  to  get  careless  and  quarrelsome. 
I  had  a  card  up  my  sleeve,  however.  I'd  packed  a 
few  "terrapin"  (hard  biscuits)  into  ray  saddle  bags. 
I  divided  thera,  refusing  to  take  any  myself.  With 
the  long  riders,  as  with  sailors,  it  was  the  com- 
mander who  must  bear  the  brunt  of  hardship.  I  told 
them  that  I'd  eaten  my  share. 

We  had  mounted  and  started,  when  Elmer  rode  up. 

"I  reckon  you  didn't  really  have  no  biscuit,"  he 
said.  "You  take  some  of  mine,  or  I'll  sling  'em 
away."     I  saw  that  he  meant  it,  and  we  divided. 

Elmer  never  rode  with  our  gang  again.  We  scat- 
tered; when  I  came  back  I  discovered  that  he  had 
thrown  in  with  a  low  chain-harness  thief  named  John 
Foster.  I  found  Elmer,  and  told  him  that  Foster 
had  neither  decency  nor  nerve ;  that  they  would 
surely  get  into  trouble.     But  Foster  held  some  sort 

79 


BEATING    BACK 

of  fascination  over  the  boy,  and  then  went  away  on 
a  little  raid  of  their  own.     When  they  reached  Pot- 
tawatomie County  they  held  up  two  Frenchmen  in 
a  cabin.     The  Kid  was  watching  one  of  them  in  a 
corner,  while  Foster  tied  the  other  to  a  beam.     El- 
mer's man  started  to  run.     Elmer  shot  him;  Foster 
got  rattled  and  cut  the  other  man's  throat.     After 
that  they  ran  wild  down  the  country,  robbing  wher- 
ever they  saw  a  chance.     The  finish  came  in  Texas, 
where  they  made  an  attempt  on  a  bank.     The  Kid 
entered  by  the  front  door  and  held  up  the  cashier; 
Foster  took  the  side  door,  where  one  of  the  bank 
officers  was  sitting  at  a  table.     Instead  of  making 
him  throw  up  his   hands,  Foster  hit  him  over  the 
head  with  his  revolver,  and  the  gun  went  off.     Elmer 
thought  this  meant  a  general  fusillade,  and  he  shot 
the  cashier  dead.     They  grabbed  all  the  money  in 
sight  and  mounted.     A  battle  started  in  the  streets ; 
Foster's  horse  was  killed.     He  mounted  behind  El- 
mer, and  they  got  away  to  the  river.     It  was  swollen 
and  dangerous.     They  found  another  horse.     Elmer 
rode  into  the  stream,  and  called  to  Foster  to  follow ; 
Foster  was  afraid,  and  Elmer  would  not  leave  him. 
While  they  were  debating  the  posse  overtook  them. 
Elmer  wanted  to  open  fire  and  die  in  his  tracks,  but 
Foster  weakened,  as  I  would  have  expected.    He  said 
that  he  knew  everyone  around  there,   and  his  pull 

80 


TWO    OUTLAWS 

would  get  them  out  of  trouble.  They  surrendered 
without  a  shot,  and  were  taken  to  Wichita  Falls 
by  Captain  MacDonald  and  his  rangers.  That  night 
the  citizens  broke  into  jail  and  hanged  them  to  a 
telegraph  pole.  The  leader  asked  Elmer  if  he 
wanted  to  make  a  statement. 

He  said :  "Tell  my  stepfather  I  died  game." 
Then,  as  they  hesitated,  because  he  was  so  young,  he 
added :  "Pull  your  old  rope— I  don't  care !"  That 
was  the  end  of  Elmer. 

I  became  mixed  up  with  this  affair  in  a  curious 
way.  The  people  of  Pottawatomie  County  laid  the 
murder  of  the  two  Frenchmen  to  an  outlaw  named 
Smith,  who  had  no  hand  in  it  whatever.  They  were 
searching  high  and  low  for  him  when  I  came  through, 
riding  away  from  a  job.  I  had  lost  my  mount — the 
thing  I  rode  was  more  like  a  sheep  than  a  horse.  I 
had  lost  my  Winchester ;  I  had  only  one  revolver  and 
five  cartridges.  While  I  was  in  that  fix  a  body  of 
marshals  took  me  for  Smith  and  chased  me.  I  had 
no  chance  to  outride  them.  I  doubled  on  my  tracks, 
rode  into  a  thicket,  plunged  over  the  bank  into  the 
South  Canadian  River,  and  ran  into  a  quicksand.  I 
thought  for  a  minute  that  it  was  all  over  with  me, 
and  while  I  struggled  I  heard  the  posse  riding  down 
the  road  only  a  few  yards  away.  The  horse  and  I 
got  out  by  rolling,  but  it  was  a  close  call. 

81 


CHAPTER    IV 
THE  COUNTRY  GROWS  HOT 

ALL  this  time  Frank  and  I  had  not  forgotten 
the  intention  which  drove  us  out  on  the  trail 
— to  kill  Love  and  Houston.  I  was  at  the 
Spike-S,  already  an  outlaw  and  cautious  about  show- 
ing myself  in  towns,  when  the  news  came  that  they 
had  been  acquitted  on  the  ground  of  self-defense. 
That  verdict  stands  in  the  records  of  Oklahoma  Ter- 
ritory ;  so  I  can  say  no  more  about  my  side  of  this 
case.  As  things  turned  out,  I  had  only  made  my  re- 
venge more  difficult  by  taking  the  trail,  but  I  waited 
my  chance. 

I  thought  the  chance  had  come  when  a  telegram 
reached  me  at  the  Spike-S  ranch,  both  address  and 
signature  under  assumed  names. 

"Temple  Houston  is  attending  court  at  Guthrie, 
if  you  care  to  discuss  any  matter  with  him,"  it  read. 
Houston  it  was  who  fired  the  first  shot  into  Ed.  I 
prepared  for  action.  I  was  always  trying  to  keep 
Frank  out  of  dangerous  enterprises,  so  I  said  noth- 
ing to  him  about  the  telegram.     Instead,  I  confided 

82 


THE    COUNTRY    GROWS    HOT 

in  Little  Dick,  who  was  eager  to  go  along.  We  rode 
all  night,  fifty  miles,  into  Guthrie,  avoiding  every 
place  where  I  might  be  known.  On  the  way  I  made 
my  plans.  I  was  to  ride  up  and  kill  Houston  wher- 
ever I  found  him ;  Dick  was  to  keep  off  the  crowd  and 
help  me  escape.  I  did  not  intend  to  assassinate  him. 
I  would  give  him  a  chance  to  draw.  Though  he  was 
very  fast  with  a  gun,  I  felt  I  could  beat  him  to  it, 
especially  since  the  man  who  is  doing  the  hunting 
always  has  the  best  of  a  gun  fight. 

As  I  rode  down  the  street  I  heard  my  name  called. 
I  turned  and  recognized  ^Marshal  Ed  Nix,  whom  I 
knew.  Though  he  understood  that  I  was  an  outlaw, 
he  had  no  pressing  reason  for  arresting  me ;  besides, 
we  were  good  friends.  I  rode  over  and  shook  hands 
with  him. 

"Al,"  he  said,  "I  know  what  you're  here  for,  and 
it  won't  do." 

I  assumed  not  to  understand.  To  throw  him  off 
guard,  I  let  him  take  me  to  his  house.  There  he 
held  me  in  talk  for  some  time.  When  I  was  free,  I 
wandered  about  town,  avoiding  everyone  I  knew  and 
inquiring  of  strangers  as  to  Houston's  whereabouts. 
I  learned  at  last  that  he  had  taken  a  northbound 
train  a  few  minutes  after  I  met  Nix.  In  order  to 
prevent  trouble  and  befriend  me,  the  marshal  had 
warned  him  by  messenger. 

83 


BEATING    BACK 

Three  or  four  times  more  Frank  and  I  made 
dashes  into  the  towns  after  one  or  both  of  these  men. 
Once,  at  Woodward,  Houston  passed  me  on  the 
street.  But  he  was  walking  with  his  wife;  before  I 
could  get  him  alone,  he  had  been  warned.  Once,  by 
visiting  El  Reno  during  the  Democratic  Convention, 
to  which  both  Love  and  Houston  were  delegates,  we 
put  our  liberty  in  danger.  The  same  thing  happened 
there — some  one  telegraphed  up  the  line ;  they 
dropped  off  the  train  a  few  stations  above,  and  never 
entered  El  Reno.  Always  some  mutual  friend  frus- 
trated us,  until  the  time  came  when  we  carried  so 
heavy  a  price  on  our  heads,  and  were  so  busy  dodg- 
ing marshals,  that  we  could  not  show  ourselves  in 
the  towns. 

To  be  perfectly  frank,  there  was  still  another  rea- 
son. You  can  never  know  how  hard  it  is  for  a  man 
with  any  sensibilities  to  determine  on  a  deliberate 
killing  and  carry  out  the  determination.  Those 
hunts  for  Love  and  Houston  took  all  the  nerve  and 
resentment  that  I  had  in  me.  Yet,  in  the  period 
which  the  law  gave  me  to  think  over  my  career,  this 
failure  was  for  a  long  time  my  greatest  regret — I 
had  left  undone  the  very  thing  which  I  broke  with 
society  to  accomplish. 

And  yet  not  long  after  I  gave  up  the  search  for 
Love  and  Houston  I  did  take  part  in  a  killing.     It 

84 


THE    COUNTRY    GROWS    PIOT 

was  not  murder,  as  either  the  law  or  tlie  Territory 
defined  the  term.  It  was  a  fair  fight,  forced  upon  me. 
We  were  assembling  for  a  raid ;  and,  although  we 
didn't  know  it,  the  beginning  of  the  end  had  come. 
In  spite  of  our  assumed  names,  our  secret  was  out. 
The  "Jennings  gang"  had  become  notorious  in  the 
Territory.  Every  robbery  of  every  kind  was  at- 
tributed to  us — we  never  did  or  attempted  a  quarter 
of  the  things  that  are  laid  at  our  door.  After  each 
job  the  marshals  became  thicker  and  more  zealous, 
and  the  pursuit  longer.  Our  margin  of  safety  had 
shrunk ;  because  of  the  danger  old  friends  had  begun 
to  refuse  us  hospitality.  There  were  heavy  rewards 
on  our  heads ;  and  certain  pseudo-friends,  as  we 
know  now,  had  arranged  to  betray  us  for  money.  A 
significant  incident  put  me  on  my  guard.  W^ith  one 
of  my  old  acquaintances  I  had  a  little  hailing  sign. 
Whoever  saw  the  other  first  used  to  draw  his  gun, 
"throw  down,"  and  "get  the  drop"  on  the  other. 
Then  we'd  laugh  and  shake  hands.  One  night,  after 
a  long  absence,  I  knocked  at  his  door;  when  he 
opened  it  I  playfully  poked  my  gun  under  his  nose. 
His  hands  went  up,  but,  instead  of  laughing  and 
lowering  them  when  he  recognized  me,  he  backed  into 
a  corner  and  begged  me  not  to  shoot.  I  saw  the 
point.  I  kept  him  covered  until  he  confessed  that  he 
■".^as  planning  to  hand  me  over. 

85 


BEATING    BACK 

It  was  in  such  times  that  I  rode  into  the  Cherokee 
Nation  with  Webb,  the  man  who  shot  the  desperado 
at  the  nester  dance.  The  night  was  stormy,  alternat- 
ing between  rain  and  snow.  We  had  not  eaten  since 
morning.  On  the  windward  side  my  clothes  seemed 
frozen  to  my  skin.  We  saw  a  light  and  rode  toward 
it,  willing  to  take  any  desperate  chance  for  food 
and  warmth.  It  was  a  little,  one-room  log  house,  in 
a  grove  of  scrub  oaks.  I  knocked.  No  one  an- 
swered. I  pulled  the  string  which  raised  the  latch 
and  entered.  I  nearly  jumped  back  again  when  I 
found  the  place  inhabited.  In  the  corner  sat  two 
women,  one  of  them  holding  a  baby.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  fireplace  crouched  a  boy  with  black, 
beady  eyes.  He  was  about  ten-years-old  size,  but 
his  face  looked  older. 

I  explained  as  politely  as  I  could  that  we  were 

cold   and   hungry,   and   would   pay   any    reasonable 

price  for  supper.     It  was  some  time  before  anyone 

answered.      Finally    the    woman    holding    the    baby 
said: 

"We  ain't  keepin'  a  tavern."  Eastern  people  can- 
not understand,  I  suppose,  that  such  a  refusal  of 
hospitality  was  almost  a  crime  under  old  Western 
conditions.  In  the  remote  districts  every  house  had 
to  be  a  tavern  in  emergency,  or  there  could  be  no 
travel.     That  excuses  what  we  did  next. 

86 


THE    COUNTRY    GROWS    HOT 

I  talked  to  tlicm  for  some  time,  and  got  no  an- 
swer, before  Webb  lost  his  patience.  He  walked  over 
to  the  cupboard,  and  opened  it.  They  had  plenty  of 
coffee,  bacon,  butter. 

"We'll  pay  you  for  this,"  I  said,  "but  we've  got 
to  eat."  Webb  proceeded  to  fry  bacon  and  make 
coffee.  The  women,  still  silent,  went  over  to  the  cor- 
ner and  crawled  into  bed,  all  dressed.  As  we  cooked 
and  ate,  they  watched  every  movement  with  eyes  as 
big  as  saucers.  Webb,  utterly  worn  out  and  made 
drowsy  by  the  heat,  stretched  himself  out  before  the 
fireplace,  and  fell  asleep.  I  had  nearly  forgotten 
about  the  boy  until  he  rose,  stretched,  yawned,  and 
said: 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  better  be  ridin',"  and  went  out 
through  a  side  door.  Until  then  I  had  taken  it  for 
granted  that  he  belonged  to  the  cabin.  I  hesitated, 
wondering  whether  to  stop  him — and  hesitated  too 
long;  for  a  moment  later  I  heard  a  horse  galloping 
away.  I  grew  nervous.  I  shook  Webb  and  whis- 
pered : 

"I  don't  like  this.  That  kid's  gone  for  some- 
body." But  Webb  said  that  was  only  one  of  my 
hunches  and  turned  over  for  another  nap.  Weary 
though  I  was,  I  couldn't  sleep ;  at  last  I  woke  Webb, 
and  insisted  that  we  had  better  get  away. 

He  was  just  rising  when  we  heard  a  footstep  out- 
87 


BEATING    BACK 

side.     We  dropped  to  our  stomachs,  ready  for  trou- 
ble.    The  door  flew  open.     Three  men  sprang  in. 

I  can  scarcely  remember  the  details  of  that  fight, 
everything  was  so  sudden.  It  seemed  that  the  bul- 
lets came  with  the  men — and  they  came  as  fast  as 
double-geared  lightning.  Flashes,  roars,  shoots  of 
pain — that's  all  until  two  of  the  men  were  down,  and 
the  third  staggering  away,  his  hands  to  his  head. 
Webb  was  down,  too — a  great  hole  torn  in  his  side. 
A  single  bullet  had  gone  into  my  biceps  and  come 
out  through  my  shoulder.  Wounded  although  we 
were,  both  of  us  rushed  to  our  horses.  As  I  left,  I 
looked  back.  The  two  women  were  still  sitting  up 
in  bed,  their  eyes  like  silver  dollars.  Apparently 
they  had  neither  moved  nor  spoken. 

Getting  into  our  saddles  was  agony.  We  made  it 
at  last,  rode  all  night  in  that  freezing  rain,  swam 
Grand  River  by  way  of  extra  torture,  and  reached 
in  the  morning  a  friendly  house  where  we  had  our 
wounds  dressed. 

I  wondered  for  a  long  time  why  we  heard  nothing 
of  that  affair.  At  last  I  learned  through  under- 
ground sources  that  these  people  were  outlaws — • 
horse  thieves  and  whiskey  peddlers.  They  took  us 
for  marshals ! 

After  the  last  job  of  this  period  of  my  career,  the 
Territory  grew  still  hotter.     When  we  had  outrid- 

88 


THE    COUNTRY    GROWS    HOT 

den  the  marshals  and  split  out,  Frank  and  I  deter- 
mined to  leave  the  country  for  a  while.     We  were 
cagey  about  New  York  and  Chicago ;  we'd  been  there 
before.     So,  with  the  proceeds  of  the  latest  robbery 
in  money  belts  under  our  shirts,  we  went  to  New  Or- 
leans.    I  happened  to  remember  that  a  man  whom 
I'd  known  intimately  at  the  University  lived  in  New 
Orleans;  and  I  looked  him  up.     Jack,  as  I  will  call 
him,  knew  about  my  career.     Nevertheless  he  invited 
me  to  his  house.     I  felt  that  I  couldn't  go  under  false 
pretenses ;  but  I  also  felt  that  he  was  a  man  whom  I 
could  trust.     Therefore  I  told  him  everything.     He 
still  wanted  me  to  come ;  so  we  were  introduced  to  his 
mother  and  sister,  I  as  "Mr.  Edwards"  and  Frank 
as  "Mr.  Williams."     We  resembled  each  other  so  lit- 
tle that  no  one  would  naturally  take  us  for  brothers. 
The   family  introduced   us   to  their   friends — the 
pleasantest,  most  hospitable  people  I  ever  met.     Im- 
mediately we  were  flooded  with  invitations — that's  a 
way  they  have  in  New  Orleans.     Frank  and  I  bought 
full   outfits   of   society    clothes.      Every   evening  we 
went  to   a  dinner  or  a  dance,  wearing  the   loot  in 
money  belts  under  the  bands  of  our  trousers,  and  45- 
caliber  Colt  revolvers  in  shoulder  scabbards   under 
the  left-hand  flap  of  our   new  dress   coats.      Some- 
times I  had  to  manage  a  lot  to  conceal  that  gun  from 
jny  partner  in  the  waltz. 

89 


BEATING    BACK 

Our  friends  had  treated  us  so  well  that  we  deter- 
mined to  give  them  a  little  pleasure  trip.  Charter- 
ing a  yacht,  we  took  a  party  of  seven  to  Galveston 
— Jack,  his  sister,  Miss  Margaret,  two  of  her  girl 
friends,  the  two  hosts,  and  an  elderly  aunt,  who 
didn't  know  that  she  was  chaperoning  outlaws.  At 
Galveston  Jack  and  Miss  INIargaret  had  friends  who 
gave  us  a  ball  at  the  old  Beach  Hotel,  afterward 
destroyed  by  the  tidal  wave.  Here,  also,  we  wore 
our  money  and  our  revolvers. 

I  was  talking  to  Miss  Margaret  in  an  alcove,  when 
I  felt  a  light  touch  on  my  shoulder.  I  looked  up 
and  saw  an  old  friend.  He  had  been  on  our  end  of 
the  game,  but  had  gone  back  on  it  and  become  a 
Wells-Fargo  detective.  He  said,  loud  enough  for 
Miss   Margaret   to  hear: 

"Look  out !  This  place  is  surrounded !"  Then  he 
passed  on  down  the  lobby,  making  a  bluff  at  looking 
for  some  one. 

I  excused  myself  and  crossed  the  floor  to  Frank. 
He  was  waltzing  with  one  of  the  young  women  who 
had  come  with  us  from  New  Orleans.  I  said  in 
Spanish : 

"Look  out!"  He  waltzed  carelessly  for  another 
turn  around  the  hall;  then  he  joined  me  in  an  off- 
hand way  and  asked: 

"What's  up.?" 

90 


THE    COUNTRY    GROWS    HOT 

"  Place  surrounded,"  I  said.  "Come  to  the  alcove 
and  bring  the  girl." 

When  we  reached  the  alcove,  Miss  Margaret  was 
waiting. 

"I  heard  what  he  said,  and  I  know  who  you  are," 
she  said.  "You're  Al  Jennings.  They're  trying  to 
capture  you  and  Mr.  Williams." 

"How  do  you  know.'"'  I  asked.  I  thought  that 
Jack  had  broken  his  promise  to  me,  and  even  in  that 
tight  place  I  was  irritated. 

"We  have  an  old  photograph  of  you  in  your  cadet 
uniform,"  she  said.  "My  brother  has  forgotten  that 
he  showed  me  the  picture  and  told  me  about  you 
long  ago.  I've  been  thinking — get  Mr.  Williams 
and  Emma.  I  believe  I  have  a  plan  for  us  to  get 
away." 

I  thought  that  "us"  curious  until  she  laid  out  her 
plan.  I  saw  the  beauty  of  it  at  once.  We  went  to 
the  cloak  room  for  our  coats  and  wraps.  On  the 
front  piazza  we  four  held  a  laughing  dispute  as  to 
who  should  pay  for  the  supper.  Then  Miss  Mar- 
garet said  in  a  good,  loud  voice: 

"I'll  tell  you !  We'll  race  for  it !  The  last  couple 
to  touch  the  rosebush  by  the  front  gate  has  to  pay." 
We  all  laughed,  and  agreed.  After  one  or  two  false 
starts  for  a  bluff,  I  counted  "one-two-three !"  and 
we  raced  past  three  detectives  who  just  stood  grin- 

91 


BEATING    BACK 

ning  at  our  antics.  When  we  were  safely  away  from 
the  hotel,  we  bade  the  ladies  a  hurried  good-bye,  and 
took  stock. 

It  looked  dangerous.  Galveston  stands  on  an 
island.  A  causeway  forms  the  only  approach  to  the 
mainland.  The  foot  passage  and  the  railway  sta- 
tion would  surely  be  guarded.  The  one  avenue  of 
escape  was  by  sea.  Frank  remembered  that  he  had 
seen  a  disreputable  old  tramp  steamer  in  the  har- 
bor. We  squinted  across  the  dark  water  and  made 
out  her  lights  and  her  hulk.  Still  in  our  dress  suits 
and  high  hats,  we  explored  the  beach  until  we  found 
a  little  yawl.  We  broke  her  lock,  and  rowed  out  to 
the  steamer. 

We  pulled  alongside,  and  held  a  parley  with  the 
watchman.  The  crew  came  peering  over  the  rail — 
the  strangest  mongrel  set  I  ever  saw — everything 
from  Carib  to  Malay.  It  was  some  time  before  they 
would  let  us  see  the  captain.  When  we  got  him 
alone,  we  offered  him  fifteen  hundred  dollars  if  he 
would  take  us  away  to  his  next  port  of  entry. 

We  had  struck  a  great  piece  of  luck.  Among  all 
the  ships  which  entered  the  port  of  Galveston,  this 
was  the  crooked  one.  The  captain,  a  drunken 
Dutchman,  carried  on  a  general  roving  trade  to 
cover  up  his  operations  in  smuggling  brandy  and 
bananas.     When  he  saw  our  fifteen  hundred  dollars 

92 


THE    COUNTRY    GROWS    HOT 

he  pulled  up  without  clearance  papers  and  sailed 
away  for  Trujillo,  Honduras. 

This  was  my  first  sea  trip,  and  it  bored  me.  The 
captain  was  pickled  in  brandy,  and  I  took  to  drink- 
ing with  him.  There  followed  the  one  period  in  my 
life  when  I  ever  fell  for  alcohol.  At  Trujillo  I 
conceived  the  notion  that  I'd  like  to  vary  our  brand 
of  liquor.  Still  in  my  dress  suit,  and  still  quite 
drunk,  I  went  ashore  and  met  another  Ameri- 
can, a  fugitive  like  ourselves.  He  joined  the  ex- 
pedition. 

We  touched  at  Rio ;  we  parted  company  with  the 
tramp  steamer  at  the  La  Plata.  From  there  we 
rounded  the  Horn  in  another  boat,  taking  in  most 
of  the  South  American  ports,  reached  San  Fran- 
cisco, doubled  back  to  Mexico  City.  And  suddenly 
we  found  those  money  belts  nearly  empty.  We  were 
practically  broke  when  he  reached  the  Texan  border 
and  parted  from  our  friend  of  Trujillo,  with  whom 
we  had  traveled  all  the  way. 

I  was  now  almost  at  the  end  of  my  long-rider 
days.  Before  I  go  on  with  the  rest,  I  would  better 
tell  just  how  I  felt  about  my  old  trade.  My  bitter 
hatred  of  the  world  had  dwindled  a  little,  and  a  love 
for  the  excitement  and  adventure  in  the  game  had 
grown  up.     I  liked  the  plotting,  the  taste  of  danger, 

93 


BEATING    BACK 

the  thrill  of  escapes.     I  liked  the  half-savage  out- 
door life. 

I  felt  no  special  remorse.  I  knew,  of  course,  that 
it  could  not  go  on  forever.  Some  day  I  should  be 
cornered  and  killed.  Until  then  I  would  take  things 
as  they  came  and  enjoy  life.  That  other  and  more 
horrible  death — by  lynching  at  the  hands  of  the  vigi- 
lantes— seldom  occurred  to  me  as  a  possibility.  I 
was  always  alert ;  I  seated  myself  when  indoors  with 
my  back  to  the  wall,  and  came  to  attention  at  the 
slightest  sound.  I  had  entire  confidence  that  no  one 
would  ever  take  me  alive.  "A  short  Hfe  and  a 
merry" — that  was  the  whole  idea.  I  had  broken 
with  society.  My  finish  would  be  sudden  and  unex- 
pected; why  should  I  bother  myself  by  wondering 
whether  it  would  come  late  or  soon? 

Only  once  did  I  feel  differently.  A  girl  figured 
in  that  case.  Her  parents  were  ranchers,  the  best 
kind  of  Southern  people;  and  she  had  been  to  a  uni- 
versity. When  I  first  visited  them,  they  entertained 
me  without  question.  When  I  came  back  her  father 
met  me  at  the  door.  He  had  been  appointed  a  mar- 
shal, and  he  knew  who  I  was.  He  did  not  try  to 
arrest  me,  but  he  made  it  plain  that  I  mustn't  visit 
them  any  more.  The  girl  came  to  me  in  the  orchard, 
and  I  gave  her  my  father's  copy  of  Burns,  which  I 
had  carried  ever  since  I  broke  with  my  family.     Be- 

94 


THE    COUNTRY    GROWS    HOT 

fore  we  finished  our  talk  the  marslials  attacked  me, 
and  there  was  a  running  figlit.  When  I  had  got 
clean  away  I  saw  against  the  moonlight  a  tall  tree 
with  a  branch  hanging  across  the  road.  My  spirits 
were  at  their  lowest  ebb,  and  you  can  understand 
what  I  fancied.  This  was  the  only  time  that  I  ever 
entertained  the  idea  of  such  a  death  as  poor  Kid 
Elmer's. 

Frank  never  enjoyed  the  game  as  I  did.  Mostly, 
in  fact,  he  hated  it.  But  he  was  deeply  involved, 
and  he  wouldn't  leave  me.  From  time  to  time  he 
begged  me  to  quit.  He  had  such  a  spell  before  we 
crossed  the  border  into  Texas.  Finally  I  agreed 
that,  if  he'd  go  back  to  the  Territorj'  with  me,  I'd 
make  one  last  campaign,  pull  out  with  my  winnings, 
and  abandon  the  life  for  good. 

We  crossed  the  border  in  August,  1897.  And  the 
next  four  months  were  like  a  return  from  Elba. 


CHAPTER    V 
THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

AFTER  Frank  and  I  returned  to  Texas  from 
our  South  American  trip,  with  our  money 
belts  flat,  we  knocked  about  the  Mexican 
border  for  a  few  weeks,  trying  to  find  just  how 
things  stood  in  Oklahoma  and  watching  for  a  chance 
to  make  a  little  travel  money.  We  were  staying  at 
the  Southern  Hotel,  between  the  two  plazas  in  San 
Antonio.  There  we  met  an  old  outlaw  friend  who 
had  gone  into  the  cattle  business,  but  was  still  willing 
to  turn  a  trick.  He  told  us  that  the  general  store 
at  a  German  settlement,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  miles 
away,  did  a  banking  business  among  the  farmers. 
On  Saturday  the  safe  was  always  full  of  money,  and 
the  storekeeper  took  none  of  the  usual  banking  pre- 
cautions. 

We  laid  our  plans.  We  found  that  the  place 
never  kept  open  in  the  evening.  As  we  were  rob- 
bers, not  burglars,  it  must  be  a  daylight  job.  On 
the  next  Saturday  morning  we  three  rode  over  there 
on  horses  which  the  rancher  furnished.     Frank  and 

96 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

I  hitched  our  horses  and  knocked  around  amon^  the 
Germans,  treating  to  beer  and  getting  tlie  lay  of  the 
land.  When  the  crowd  had  thinned  out  a  little  we 
drifted  over  to  the  main  store.  The  rancher  kept 
out  of  sight  in  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement.  There 
were  a  good  many  people  buying  at  the  counter 
when  the  storekeeper  opened  the  safe. 

On  my  signal  the  rancher  began  to  shoot  into  the 
air.  That  made  the  crowd  rush  outside  to  see  what 
was  going  on.  Frank  and  I  proceeded  immediately 
to  business.  There  were  three  or  four  Germans  left 
in  the  place.  We  had  some  trouble  in  convincing 
them  of  our  sincerity.  One  big  German  in  particu- 
lar was  talking  about  what  ought  to  be  done  to  those 
shooters  in  the  street,  when  Frank  put  a  blue-bar- 
reled forty-five  under  his  nose.  He  wanted  to  argue 
the  question,  and  Frank  had  to  jab  him  in  the 
stomach  with  the  muzzle  before  he  would  keep  still 
and  hoist  his  hands.  Then  we  ran  through  the  safe, 
tucked  the  bills  into  our  pockets,  and  walked 
quietly  out  of  the  store,  locking  the  door  behind 
us.  The  crowd  outside  was  still  talking  over  those 
mj'sterious  shots.  We  brushed  through  them 
unobtrusively,  reached  our  horses,  and  rode.  The 
rancher  was  waiting  for  us  out  in  the  open  coun- 
try. 

He  was  a  man  well  known  in  the  community,  and 
97 


BEATING    BACK 

no  suspicion  ever  attached  to  him.  As  for  Frank 
and  me,  we  made  a  clean  and  safe  escape  by  doing 
the  unexpected.  Once  away  from  the  settlement  we 
gave  our  horses  to  the  rancher,  who  led  them  home ; 
and  we  took  a  train  into  San  Antonio.  The  Ger- 
mans had  seen  us  arrive  and  depart  on  horseback, 
so  the  posse  searched  the  roads  and  hills.  No  one 
thought  of  watching  the  trains. 

On  that  job  we  cleaned  up  about  sixteen  thousand 
dollars,  or  more  than  five  thousand  dollars  apiece. 
As  I  have  said  elsewhere,  Frank  and  I  had  planned 
to  make  one  last  campaign  and  leave  the  road.  To 
salt  a  little  money  down  appealed  to  us  as  a  good 
idea.  So,  holding  out  a  few  hundreds  for  expenses, 
we  invested  the  remainder  in  cattle  with  the  rancher, 
our  accomplice.  We  never  saw  that  roll  again.  He 
promptly  sold  out  his  property,  pocketed  our 
money,  and  moved  to  Mexico. 

The  posses  were  still  scouring  the  plains  and  sand 
hills  around  the  German  settlement  when  Frank  and 
I  took  the  train  from  San  Antonio  to  Oklahoma.  In 
the  house  of  a  horse  thief  on  the  Washita  we  looked 
over  the  situation.  Our  old  crowd  had  changed. 
Arizona  had  been  killed  by  the  vigilantes  and  Elmer 
lynched.  Mex  had  pulled  out  for  other  fields.  He 
was  wiser  than  we;  he  understood  that  the  law  was 
coming  into  the  Territory,  and  that  our  hand  was 

98 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

about  played.  Where  Webb  had  gone  I  have  never 
found,  even  to  this  day.  Bud,  Bill,  and  Little  Dick 
were  still  in  the  Territory.  We  found  them  at  last; 
we  five  met,  first  at  tlie  Spike-S  and  later  at  a  ranch 
near  Shawnee. 

The  other  boys  had  already  planned  a  job — to 
rob  a  bank  at  Shawnee.  I  saw  at  once  that  I 
couldn't  let  this  go  through,  for  two  reasons.  First, 
the  cashier  of  that  bank — Cash  Cade  by  name — had 
been  a  warm  personal  friend  in  the  old  days.  Sec- 
ond and  more  important,  my  father  was  now  judge 
of  that  county.  In  case  of  capture  we  would  em- 
barrass him  terribh'.  He  was  troubled  enough  as  it 
stood.  Although  we  kept  writing  home  to  tell  him 
that  we  were  doing  nothing  illegal,  he  knew  better, 
and  so  did  his  enemies. 

I  kept  the  second  objection  out  of  sight,  but  I  did 
argue  that  Cash  Cade  was  my  friend,  and  I  couldn't 
rob  him.  Bud,  Bill,  and  Little  Dick  said  that  I 
talked  like  a  fool ;  men  in  our  business  had  no  friends. 
The  argument  grew  warm  and  personal.  Finally  I 
saw  a  line  of  escape. 

"He's  so  good  a  friend,"  I  said,  "that  I  can  al- 
ways borrow  money  from  him." 

"Just  you  try  it !"  said  the  others. 

"All  right,  I  will,"  I  said.  So  I  wrote  to  Cash 
Cade  about  as  follows : 

99 


BEATING    BACK 

Dear  Cash: 

I  am  here  in  the  vicinity  of  Shawnee.  Rather  hard 
up.  Would  like  to  have  as  much  as  $25.  Will  return  it 
to  you  some  time. 

I  didn't  sign  it,  but  I  gave  it  to  a  certain  boy  who 
was  friendly  with  our  gang,  telling  him  to  deliver  it 
to  Mr.  Cade  in  person  and  to  say  that  Al  Jennings 
sent  it.  The  boy  came  back  with  the  twenty-five 
dollars.  Then  my  comrades  threw  up  their  hands. 
That  ready  generosity  of  Cash  Cade  saved  the  Citi- 
zens' National  Bank. 

Soon  afterward  two  propositions  came  out  of  the 
air.  They  were  among  the  many  tips  given  to  us 
from  time  to  time  by  certain  men  in  business  or  pub- 
lic life  who  had  no  hesitation  about  sharing  the 
profits  of  robbery,  provided  they  themselves  ran  no 
risk.  The  first  concerned  a  $90,000  shipment  of 
currency  on  the  Rock  Island  line.  That  was  the  job 
which  afterward  got  us  into  trouble. 

Owing  to  circumstances  over  which  we  had  no  con- 
trol, the  second  never  matured.  A  deputy  marshal, 
a  man  of  considerable  influence  in  the  Territory, 
knew  all  about  a  certain  payment  made  regularly  to 
one  of  the  Five  Tribes.  He  sent  us  a  blind  message ; 
we  rode  to  town  by  night  for  a  conference.  While 
the  rest  of  the  crowd  stayed  in  the  hills  to  watch 
the  horses,  Bud  and  I  went  to  his  house  on  foot. 

100 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

His  wife  answered  our  knock.  We  had  been  rough- 
ing it  for  some  days,  and  our  appearance  was  not 
prepossessing.  She  gave  a  little  scream  and  closed 
the  door.  Bud,  who  knew  her,  laughed,  opened  it 
again,  and  told  her  not  to  worry ;  wc  only  wanted  to 
see  her  husband  on  a  business  matter.  "I  think  he's 
in  the  back  yard,  milking,"  she  said.  "I'll  go  fetch 
him." 

"Don't  bother,"  I  said.  "We'll  go  ourselves." 
And  we  hurried  to  the  back  yard  to  forestall  any 
treachery — he  was  formerly  a  friend,  but  friends 
change,  and  we  didn't  want  to  run  against  a  can- 
non. At  the  back  door  we  met  her,  making  for  the 
barnyard.  She  laughed  and  looked  foolish.  There 
was  plenty  of  suspicion  on  both  sides — yet  he  had  a 
straight  business  proposition. 

He  grasped  our  hands  effusively  and  nervously, 
and  explained  at  once  that  he  had  alias  warrants  for 
our  arrest,  but  never  intended  serving  them.  In 
fact,  the  day  before  he  had  led  a  posse  down  to 
Hominy  Post  looking  for  us  and  expecting  not  to 
find  us.  Then  he  sent  his  wife  inside,  and  we  squat- 
ted down  on  our  spurs  among  the  cows  while  we 
talked  business. 

The  government,  knowing  that  the  Jennings  gang 
was  operating  again,  intended  to  take  no  chances 
with  this  Indian  paj'ment.     The  agent  who  usually 

101 


BEATING    BACK 

carried  the  money  was  to  follow  the  regular  route, 
our  friend  the  deputy  marshal  guarding  him,  with 
an  empty  box.  Meanwhile  a  lone  messenger  in  a 
buckboard  was  to  go  by  a  new  and  unfrequented 
route  with  the  money.  The  deputy  marshal  de- 
scribed the  line  of  travel  minutely.  To  get  that  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  would  be  like  falling  into  the 
river  and  coming  out  with  a  bucket  of  fish. 

Declining  the  deputy  marshal's  invitation  to  stay 
all  night,  we  rode  back  and  laid  our  plans  for  my 
final  campaign  as  a  long  rider.  The  Rock  Island 
money  was  coming  through  about  the  first  of  Octo- 
ber. We  would  pull  off  that  robbery,  scatter,  and 
meet  again  at  the  Spike-S  on  December  first  to  ma- 
ture plans  for  the  robbery  of  the  Indian  payment. 
By  that  time,  if  everything  went  well,  we  would  have 
more  than  thirty  thousand  dollars  apiece.  Then, 
keeping  my  promise  to  Frank,  I  would  give  up  the 
trail.     But  God  disposes. 

Those  two  big  jobs  had  blinded  us  to  the  state  of 
the  country.  If  it  sizzled  when  we  left  for  New 
Orleans,  it  boiled  now.  The  rewards  for  us — dead 
or  alive — were  so  large  as  to  tempt  our  best  friends. 
I  began  to  notice  that  people  in  our  debt,  people 
on  whom  we  could  always  count,  had  become  distant. 
Nevertheless  we  cut  straight  across  that  hostile 
country,  making  for  a  point  near  El  Reno,  where 

102 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

the  Rock  Island  trcack  crosses  the  Choctaw.  That 
seemed  to  us  the  best  place  for  our  hold-up,  and 
we  wanted  to  spy  out  the  country  in  advance.  My 
sister  Mary,  who  was  married  to  a  farmer,  lived  in 
that  region.  For  the  first  time  in  my  outlaw  days  I 
lodged  with  her,  and  from  her  house  Bud  and  I  rode 
by  night  to  the  Choctaw  crossing,  leaving  the  rest 
of  the  gang  camped  near  Mary's  house. 

The  place  looked  desirable.  There  was  no  settle- 
ment in  the  immediate  vicinity — only  Indian  allot- 
ment land.  The  roads  were  good,  and  open.  All 
trains  had  by  law  to  stop  before  they  made  that 
crossing.  Picking  out  a  good  place  to  hide  our 
horses,  we  secreted  ourselves  in  the  willows  to  see 
the  Rock  Island  express  come  through  and  watch  the 
ways  of  the  trainmen. 

Just  before  train  time  we  were  astonished  to  see  a 
lone  engine  sweep  down  the  track  without  whistling, 
without  even  slowing  up  at  the  crossing.  This  dis- 
turbed us  greatly.  We  made  up  our  minds  that 
some  settler,  seeing  us  in  the  region,  had  informed 
the  railroad ;  and  we  called  the  turn.  When  the  train 
passed,  nearly  two  hours  late,  events  confirmed  our 
fears.  The  coaches  were  all  dark — not  a  light  any- 
where except  the  locomotive  headlight — and  the 
train  ran  straight  past  the  crossing  at  forty  miles 
an  hour. 

103 


BEATING    BACK 

We  mounted  and  got  away,  feeling  uneasy.  We 
were  eight  miles  from  my  sister's  house  when  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  we  would  be  foolish  to  ride  there 
after  night.  The  marshal  might  be  already  holding 
the  house,  waiting  for  us.  I  discussed  matters  with 
Bud.  He  shared  my  suspicion.  I  then  and  there 
made  up  my  mind  never  again  to  stay  with  my  rela- 
tives. We  dared  not  approach  in  the  darkness,  and 
the  rest  of  that  night  we  hid  in  a  straw  stack. 

At  dawn  we  approached  Mary's  farm  by  a  side 
road,  hitched  our  horses  under  cover,  and  sneaked 
to  the  place  in  the  willows  where  the  boys  had  been 
camped.  They  were  gone.  Three  hundred  yards 
away  a  man  was  plowing.  By  his  motions  I  recog- 
nized my  brother-in-law.  We  crawled  to  a  point 
where  we  could  survey  the  creek.  The  boys  and  their 
horses  were  nowhere  in  sight,  but  we  saw  innumera- 
ble horse  tracks.  The  marshal  had  certainly  been 
there;  yet  the  sight  of  my  brother-in-law  peaceably 
plowing  reassured  me.  I  crossed  to  the  high  bank 
of  the  creek,  and  started  toward  the  house.  I'd  no 
sooner  poked  up  my  head  than  my  brother-in-law 
came  dodging  through  the  corn  patch,  half  bent. 
When  he  got  within  speaking  distance,  he  said : 

"For  God's  sake,  get  out!  The  orchard  is  filled 
with  marshals." 

"Where  are  the  boys.-*"  I  asked. 
104 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

"They  skipped  during  the  night,"  he  said.  "Our 
neighbor  to  the  north  was  fishing  in  the  creek  yes- 
terday. He  saw  them  and  tipped  off  Pat  Nagle  at 
Kingfisher."  Nagle  was  the  marshal  for  that  dis- 
trict. 

"Where  have  the  boys  gone?"  I  asked. 

"They  didn't  tell  me — Mary  knows,"  he  an- 
swered. I  went  back  to  Bud.  He  was  getting  pretty 
ringy — said  we  were  going  to  be  shot  down  like  rats 
in  a  trap.  Thinking  as  fast  as  I  could,  I  realized 
that  I  must  get  information  about  the  other  boys ; 
besides,  I  was  terribly  worried  over  Mary.  So, 
when  we  reached  the  horses,  I  told  Bud  to  go  down 
the  section  line  and  turn  west.     He  said,  surprised: 

"Aren't  you  coming?" 

I  said :     "No,  by ,  I  am  going  to  the  house." 

He  said :     "You'll  commit  suicide  !" 

"Makes  no  difference,"  I  said;  "I'm  going  to  see 
Mary  and  find  where  the  boys  are.  If  you  hear  any- 
thing, don't  stop,  but  ride !" 

I  mounted  Roan  Dick,  a  big,  splendid  thorough- 
bred, and  started  for  the  house  on  the  dead  run. 
By  luck  the  gates  were  open.  As  I  approached,  my 
sister  came  out  of  the  kitchen  door,  waving  her 
apron  to  make  me  go  back.  I  can't  describe  how  I 
felt  at  that  moment.  Tired,  hungry,  hunted,  and 
surrounded,  I  was  in  such  a  white  heat  of  despera- 

105 


BEATING    BACK 

tlon  that  an  army  couldn't  have  stopped  me.  I  must 
see  her  and  talk  to  her  for  the  last  time.  I  put  steel 
to  Roan  Dick  and  went  up  in  a  clatter.  As  I  dis- 
mounted her  baby  ran  to  me  with  his  arms  out.  I 
took  him  up.  Then  I  thought  of  the  danger.  I 
was  about  to  put  him  down  when  it  occurred  to  me 
that  no  one  would  shoot  at  a  man  with  a  baby  in  his 
arms. 

"They're  in  the  wheat  fields,  just  beyond  the  or- 
chard ;  they've  been  there  all  night !"  she  cried.  Then 
she  told  me  that  Frank  and  the  rest  had  gone  to  a 
friend's  house  near  El  Reno. 

I  bade  her  good-bye  and  swung  into  the  saddle. 
She  was  crying  bitterly.  To  ease  her  mind,  and  to 
make  her  think  I  had  abandoned  all  sentiment,  I 
laughed  and  quoted  the  lines  of  the  popular  song: 

"Just  tell  them  that  you  saw  me,  and  they  will 
know  the  rest." 

Sure  enough,  that  put  her  in  a  better  humor.  She 
laughed  through  her  tears.  But  she  was  crying 
again  a  moment  later  when  she  begged  me  to  give  up 
that  life,  and  wondered  if  she  would  ever  see  me 
again.  I  said,  "Sure!  I'll  be  back  in  a  few  days. 
Tell  Pat  Nagle  if  he  doesn't  treat  you  right  I'll 
ride  into  Kingfisher  and  kill  him."  I  mounted, 
stretched  out  over  Roan  Dick's  neck  and  gave  him 
all  his  thoroughbred  speed,  expecting  to  draw  a  vol- 

106 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

ley.  None  came.  Whether  the  posse  had  knocked 
off  for  breakfast,  whether  they  were  expecting  me 
to  approach  from  the  north  and  didn't  think  to 
watch  the  house,  or  whether  they  had  an  attack  of 
nerves,  I  don't  know  yet. 

Bud  was  waiting  for  me  on  the  section  line.  We 
turned  west,  intending  to  make  a  wide  circle  round 
that  orchard  where  the  marshals  were  waiting.  Out 
of  the  brush  came  a  man  in  soldier  leggings.  He 
carried  a  38-caliber  revolver  in  a  cartridge  belt. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  going  fishing  on  John's  creek,"  he  said.  He 
was  a  sight  more  astonished  than  I. 

"Where's  your  pole.?"  I  asked.  "Expect  to  shoot 
the  fish?  You're  a  rat  of  a  marshal."  A  plowed 
field  lay  in  the  other  direction  from  the  orchard.  I 
ripped  out  a  gun  and  told  him  to  hit  that  field  quick ; 
if  he  looked  back,  I'd  cut  him  in  two.  When  I  saw 
him  last  he  was  making  very  fair  time,  considering 
the  going.  I  was  in  a  devilish  humor  that  morning. 
The  sense  of  being  hunted,  of  having  no  place  to 
turn,  had  combed  up  the  worst  in  me.  Hurried  as 
we  were,  I  stopped  to  make  a  visit  of  discourtesy  at 
the  house  of  a  preacher  named  Shannon,  who  had 
been  roasting  me.  He  wasn't  at  home,  so  I  left 
word  with  his  wife  that  he'd  better  shut  up,  or  I'd 
visit  him  again.     By  now  teams  and  pedestrians  be- 

107 


BEATING    BACK 

gan  to  appear  on  the  roads.  All  the  people  we  met 
just  pulled  up  when  they  saw  us.  I  had  never  known 
a  country  so  thoroughly  suspicious. 

Further,  we  were  almost  in  sight  of  El  Reno — the 
place  where  I'd  served  as  county  attorney.  I  stood 
every  chance  of  being  recognized.  It  seemed  best  to 
lie  low  for  the  day.  We  entered  the  farmhouse  of  a 
German  family,  where  we  got  breakfast  and  feed  for 
our  horses.  The  Germans  talked  little,  but  the 
farmer  and  his  two  sons  sized  us  up  in  their  stolid 
way.  Bye  and  bye  they  went  to  plowing.  We 
climbed  to  the  roof  of  a  small  shed  and  stayed  there 
all  day,  watching  both  the  plowmen  and  the  ap- 
proaches to  the  farm.  No  one  bothered  us.  At 
dusk  we  had  supper  with  the  Germans,  paid  our 
shot,  and  rode  on.  We  got  around  El  Reno  that 
night  and  joined  the  rest  of  the  gang. 

From  there  we  got  in  touch  with  our  source  of 
information.  As  we  thought,  the  Rock  Island  peo- 
ple had  been  informed  of  our  presence  in  the  country. 
Unknown  to  us,  there  was  quite  a  sum  of  money  on 
the  very  train  which  Bud  and  I  had  chosen  for  ob- 
servation. Upon  receiving  the  tip,  the  conductor 
had  stopped  at  Wellington  to  put  off  the  money  and 
take  on  marshals.  The  posse  was  waiting  behind 
dark  windows  to  open  fire  at  the  first  sign  of  trou- 
ble.    However,  so  our  informant  said,  the  big  con- 

108 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

signment  of  ninety  thousand  dollars  would  come 
through,  according  to  program,  at  about  noon  of 
October  first.  That  meant  a  daylight  job.  If  you 
remember  that  date — October  1,  1897 — it  will  save 
much  future  explanation. 

We  decided  to  make  the  real  attempt  in  another 
district,  and  we  camped  in  the  timber  along  the  Ca- 
nadian, while  we  spied  out  the  land  forty  or  fifty 
miles  from  El  Reno.  On  the  line  between  Minco  and 
Chickasha  runs  a  high  divide.  The  town  of  Pocasset 
stands  there  now,  but  in  those  days  the  only  human 
signs  were  the  track,  a  section  house,  and  a  siding. 
There  the  train  could  be  stopped  by  signal  and 
forced  to  turn  onto  the  siding,  where  we  could  watch 
the  track  in  both  directions  against  a  surprise. 

On  the  night  of  September  30th  we  moved  camp 
to  a  point  near  Minco,  and  at  eleven  o'clock  on  the 
morning  of  October  first  we  rode  to  the  section 
house  and  proceeded  to  business.  We  had  deter- 
mined to  disguise  ourselves.  Among  my  things  I 
had  an  old  bearskin  saddle  pocket.  I  cut  eye  holes 
in  it,  and  before  we  approached  the  section  house  I 
tied  it  over  my  face  and  lower  hair — my  hair  is  so 
red  that  a  glimpse  of  it  serves  for  an  identification. 
The  other  boys  intended  to  use  their  handkerchiefs 
as  masks.  They  were  not  so  particular  as  I,  for  they 
hadn't  lived  in  this  region. 

109 


BEATING    BACK 

Slipping  the  mask  down  to  my  neck,  I  waited  at 
the  section  house  with  Bill  and  Dick,  while  Bud  and 
Frank  went  to  capture  the  section  foreman,  who  was 
bossing  a  gang  of  laborers  some  distance  down  the 
track.  There  were  no  men  at  the  section  house,  only 
two  women  and  two  children.  The  younger  of  these, 
just  a  baby  really,  came  toddling  out  on  the  porch. 
I  picked  him  up  and  began  playing  with  him.  We 
were  having  a  good  time,  when  I  heard  some  one 
coming  through  the  house.  I  slipped  up  the  mask 
as  a  woman  stepped  out  to  the  porch.  She 
screamed ;  the  baby  broke  and  ran.  I  explained  that 
she  need  have  no  fear;  she  wasn't  going  to  be 
harmed,  only  she'd  better  go  inside  and  sit  down. 
She  grabbed  up  the  child,  and  flew. 

"She  was  foolish  to  run  that  way,"  I  said  to  the 
boys.  "A  violent  man  might  have  taken  a  shot  at 
her." 

"Well,  what  do  you  expect?"  said  Little  Dick. 
"You'd  better  keep  that  mask  hid  when  the  engine 
comes  along,  or  it'll  run  and  hide.  You  look  like 
hell."  So  we  joked  along  until  Frank  and  Bud  ar- 
rived with  the  foreman.  He  had  been  informed  of 
what  we  intended  to  do,  and  he  took  it  coolly — said 
he  didn't  care  if  we  left  his  folks  alone. 

"Well,  just  stay  in  the  house,"  I  said,  "and  don't 
poke   your  head   out.      In   the   excitement   of  these 

110 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

moments  something  might  happen."  Just  then  the 
baby,  who  had  broken  away  from  his  mother,  came 
running  out  to  me.  Frank  picked  him  up  and 
swung  him  about  until  he  cackled  with  delight. 
Then  he  wanted  to  take  that  tiling  off  my  face — 
showed  symptoms  of  crying  about  it.  To  appease 
him  I  gave  him  a  quarter,  the  last  I  had  in  the 
world.  We  certainly  needed  that  ninety  thousand 
dollars. 

It  lacked  only  a  few  minutes  to  train  time,  when 
a  man  came  down  the  track  on  foot — a  stockily 
built  fellow  of  the  laboring  type.  Frank  slipped  out, 
had  a  few  words  with  him,  and  led  him  inside.  \\Tien 
he  saw  me  in  that  mask  he  began  to  paw  the  air. 
He  was  an  Irishman  and  excitable.  We  told  him 
to  stand  by  the  section  house  and  keep  his  head  in, 
and  he  followed  program  all  the  way. 

Now  it  was  train  time.  We  had  taken  the  keys 
from  the  section  foreman.  Frank  unlocked  the 
switch  and  threw  it  onto  the  siding,  where  stood  two 
or  three  sand  cars.  This  operation,  of  course,  set 
the  automatic  signal  which  showed  the  engineer  that 
he  was  headed  onto  the  siding  and  must  stop.  The 
track  began  to  sing,  and  the  train  came  in  sight. 
As  it  approached  the  switch,  it  showed  no  sign  of 
slowing  down.  Frank  sprang  to  his  feet,  waved  his 
arms,  and  pointed  to  the  signal.     If  the  engineer  had 

111 


BEATING    BACK 

ignored  that,  Frank  would  have  thrown  the  switch 
onto  the  main  track  and  let  the  train  go  past,  rather 
than  have  a  wreck.  But  we  heard  the  wheels  begin 
to  grind,  and  saw  the  sand  fly.  The  train  took  the 
siding  and  stopped  just  short  of  the  sand  cars. 

Then  we  turned  loose,  as  usual  shooting  at  the 
roof,  and  smashing  a  few  windows  over  the  heads  of 
the  people  who  looked  out.  Rushing  down  the  line 
with  my  Winchester,  I  commanded  the  engineer  to 
hit  the  dirt.  He  landed  on  all  fours  beside  the 
track,  rose  up,  and  offered  me  his  watch.  I  told  him 
to  keep  his  old  clock — all  I  wanted  of  him  was  quiet. 
On  the  other  side.  Bill  was  attending  to  the  fireman. 
I  turned  the  engineer  over  to  Bill.  Just  then  firing 
commenced  far  down  the  line.  Some  of  the  passen- 
gers had  started  to  escape  by  the  rear  platform,  and 
Frank  was  keeping  them  in.  As  I  ran  back  to  see 
about  this  the  door  of  the  express  car  opened,  and 
the  messenger  appeared  with  a  sawed-off  shotgun. 
Raising  my  Winchester,  I  tore  loose  just  above  his 
head  and  split  from  the  door  jamb  a  sliver  which 
nearly  slapped  him  in  the  face.  He  jumped  to  the 
other  side,  got  the  same  reception  from  Bud,  and 
shuttlecocked  over  to  my  side  again.  By  now  he 
had  dropped  his  shotgun.  I  covered  him  and  or- 
dered him  to  jump.  He  landed  flat,  rolled  into  the 
gutter,  and  ran  at  me,  yelling : 

112 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

"Don't!     Don't!" 

I  never  saw  such  terror  in  a  human  face.  I  was 
afraid  he'd  run  over  me,  and  I  poked  my  Winchester 
square  into  his  chest.     He  stopped  like  a  cow-pony. 

"You're  greatly  excited,"  I  said.  "Stand  there 
by  the  engineer  and  await  orders."  He  obeyed  as 
though  he  were  in  a  trance,  and  started  to  walk 
straight  over  Bill.  We  grabbed  him  and  threw  him 
into  the  line. 

Now  the  passengers  were  tamed,  and  Frank  had 
"killed"  the  engine  by  turning  water  into  the  fire 
box.  I  proceeded  to  the  business  of  the  afternoon. 
There  was  a  big  safe  in  the  corner  of  the  express 
car,  fastened  to  the  floor  by  steel  bands.  It  had  no 
combination  in  sight.  How  it  opened,  I  couldn't  see. 
Beside  it  stood  a  little,  ordinary  "way  safe,"  used 
to  transport  express  packages  which  came  aboard 
along  the  line.  Without  question  that  big  safe  con- 
tained the  ninety  thousand  dollars.  Dj'namite  was 
the  only  way.  I  had  brought  along  five  sticks  of 
giant  powder,  with  caps  and  fuses,  for  that  very 
emergenc3\  I  called  for  the  messenger,  and  I  had  to 
help  him  climb  in.     He  began  yelling: 

"I  can't  open  it !    Don't  kill  me.    I  can't  open  it !" 

I  said :  "Shut  up.  I  know  you  can't.  You  aren't 
going  to  get  hurt.  Quiet  down  now!  Open  that 
way  safe."   He  couldn't  even  take  the  keys  out  of  his 

113 


BEATING    BACK 

pocket.  I  had  to  reach  in  and  get  them  myself, 
which  I  remember  because  the  operation  was  very 
obnoxious  to  me.  We  opened  the  way  safe  and 
dumped  all  the  contents  into  a  canvas  bag,  not  stop- 
ping to  look  over  the  haul.  I  took  two  sticks  of 
dynamite,  cut  a  fuse  about  three  inches  long,  and 
put  it  on  the  upper  edge  of  the  big  safe.  Then  I 
ordered  the  messenger  to  help  me  lift  the  little  way 
safe  on  top  of  that,  so  as  to  blow  the  explosion 
downward.  As  we  heaved  it  up,  I  dropped  my  end, 
for  it  was  very  heavy.  The  messenger  almost 
fainted.  Bud  kicked  him  out  of  the  car,  and  himself 
helped  me  with  the  safe.  I  lit  the  fuse,  and  we 
jumped.  Almost  immediately  there  came  an  explo- 
sion so  heavy  that  it  puzzled  me.  It  blew  off  the 
whole  top  of  the  car.  It  covered  the  right  of  way 
with  splinters.  It  scattered  the  way  safe  into  a 
thousand  pieces.  I  jumped  back  through  the  door. 
The  atmosphere  was  choking — why,  I  didn't  under- 
stand until  I  got  the  smell  of  tobacco.  A  cigar  ship- 
ment in  the  corner  had  been  blown  into  dust.  There 
was  a  hole  in  one  corner  of  the  big  safe,  large  enough 
so  that  I  could  see  inside,  but  not  large  enough  to 
reach  the  money.  The  door  still  held.  I  looked 
about  for  the  rest  of  my  dynamite,  and  turned  sick. 
I'd  made  my  slip — I'd  played  the  fool.  When  I 
jumped,  I'd  left  my  three  sticks  of  dynamite  on  the 

114< 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

floor  of  the  car.  They'd  gone  off  in  the  general  ex- 
plosion, tearing  a  great  hole  in  the  flooring.  I  was 
out  of  material. 

I  grabbed  an  axe  and  hacked  with  all  my  strength 
at  the  hole  in  the  safe.  It  was  a  puny  effort.  I 
didn't  make  a  dent.  My  little  mistake  had  cost  us 
ninety  thousand  dollars. 

There  was  no  time  to  cry  over  spilt  milk.  I 
jumped  down  and  broke  the  news  to  the  boys.  We 
hadn't  a  cent,  as  I  have  said,  and  we'd  forgotten 
about  the  contents  of  the  way  safe.  We  determined 
to  rob  the  passengers  for  expense  money.  That  was 
a  reckless  thing  to  do — how  reckless,  I  didn't  realize 
fully  at  the  time.  I  had  been  county  attorney  at  El 
Reno.  The  day  coach  was  full  of  El  Reno  people. 
For  a  man  of  my  peculiar  stature,  build,  complex- 
ion, and  color  of  hair,  a  bearskin  mask  is  no  great 
disguise.  Up  to  that  time  only  the  trainmen  had 
seen  me. 

Nevertheless  I  called  the  engineer  and  told  him 
to  line  up  the  passengers  on  the  right  of  way.  Bud 
asked : 

"What's  the  idea.?" 

"There  are  two  towns  in  sight,"  I  said.  "We  can't 
afford  to  be  inside  making  a  slow  search  with  the 
possibility  of  some  one  surprising  us."  Before  I 
got  forward  the  passengers  were  piling  out  and  lin- 

115 


BEATING    BACK 

Ing  up  against  the  wire  fence.  I  glanced  down  the 
line,  and  it  looked  like  Old  Home  Week.  There 
were  Hon.  W.  I.  Gilbert,  Dudley  Brown,  Father 
Hall,  the  Catholic  priest  at  El  Reno,  Rev.  Dr.  Ham- 
ilton, a  Protestant  clergyman,  and  a  dozen  others 
whom  I  could  call  by  name.  As  I  started  along 
their  front  in  that  bearskin  mask  their  hands  rose 
automatically. 

It  took  some  time  to  get  them  all  ofF.  Just  as  we 
were  ready  to  begin,  I  saw  a  woman  hesitating  at 
the  car  door.     I  told  her  to  hurry.     She  said : 

"If  you  please,  sir,  my  husband  is  sick.  I  can 
hardly  get  him  off." 

"Then  go  back  inside,  and  no  one  will  trouble 
you,"  I  said. 

"I'd  much  rather  get  off,  if  you  will  let  me,"  she 
said.  But  she  staggered,  so  that  I  helped  her  into 
line. 

Everything  seemed  read}^  when  I  heard  a  whoop 
behind  me.  A  negro  woman,  very  fat  and  very 
frightened,  had  started  to  get  off  backward  after 
the  fashion  of  her  sex.  It  was  two  or  three  feet 
from  the  last  step  to  the  bank.  She  had  one  foot 
on  the  step  and  was  reaching  with  the  other.  Her 
face  was  turned  over  her  shoulder,  and  her  eyes 
looked  like  moons. 

I  said :     "Jar  loose,  mud  hen !"     She  saw  me  and 
116 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

my  mask  for  the  first  time.  She  let  out  a  screech, 
loosed  her  hold,  and  tumbled  over  on  the  bank.  And 
no  one  laughed  except  Bill.  It  surely  was  a  serious 
moment  on  both  sides. 

The  passengers,  still  reaching  toward  heaven,  were 
squirming  this  way  and  that,  trying  to  rest  their 
arms,  which  had  got  tired  from  keeping  the  same 
position.  I  told  them  that  they  miglit  lower  their 
hands.  Some  accepted  the  permission,  some  felt 
safer  as  they  were,  and  some  would  jerk  up  their 
hands  like  mechanical  to^'s  whenever  I  looked  their 
way.  Bill,  Dick,  and  I  watched  the  approaches  and 
kept  order,  while  Bud  and  Frank  took  up  the  col- 
lection. By  now  the  sick  man  had  crawled  out  and 
joined  his  wife.  He  was  lying  on  the  ground.  Bud 
ordered  him  to  his  feet.  I  interfered,  and  his  wife, 
reaching  toward  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  said : 

"I'll  give  you  freely  all  I  have."  I  shook  my  head 
at  her,  and  ordered  Bud  down  the  line.  I  learned 
afterward  that  she  had  four  hundred  dollars. 

We  had  nearly  finished  when  Little  Dick  came 
along,  carrying  a  bunch  of  bananas  in  one  hand  and 
a  jug  in  the  other.  He  was  a  peculiar  man,  this 
Little  Dick.  He'd  ride  for  days  without  speaking 
to  a  comrade.  He  was  addicted  to  drink,  and,  when 
he  got  a  little  of  the  stuff  in  him  he'd  stay  where 
he  was,  regardless  of  consequences. 

117 


BEATING    BACK 

"I  got  some  bananas  for  our  dinner,"  said  Dick, 
"and  this  smells  like  some  real  good  old  stuff.  I 
haven't  tasted  it  yet." 

"Let  me  smell  it,"  said  I.  It  was  whiskey.  I 
gave  the  jug  a  swinging  lick  and  broke  it  against  a 
car  wheel.  I  wanted  no  liquor  in  the  gang,  then  or 
afterward.  The  danger  of  a  train  robbery  is  not 
the  act  itself;  it  is  the  events  of  the  next  few  days. 
"You  think  you're  damn  smart !"  said  Dick.  For 
a  moment  I  thought  he'd  shoot,  he  was  so  mad. 

"Get  to  the  horses !"  I  said.  Away  off  in  the  dis- 
tance I'd  seen  some  men  on  horseback.  The  situa- 
tion was  growing  ticklish,  and  I  hurried  the  col- 
lectors along.  Frank  had  just  reached  Father  Hall. 
He  had  just  fifty  cents,  which  he  handed  over,  say- 
'ing:  "I  am  only  a  poor  priest."  Frank  gave  it 
back  and  five  dollars  more.  The  next  man  in  line 
was  Dr.  Hamilton,  the  Protestant  clergyman  at  El 
Reno. 

"I  am  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  too!"  he  said. 
Frank  looked  him  over.  "You  look  more  like  a 
tinhorn  gambler!"  he  said.  "Shell  out!"  Dr.  Ham- 
ilton and  I  have  laughed  over  this  since.  The  fact 
that  he  doesn't  look  hke  a  clergyman  cost  him  seven 
dollars  and  his  watch. 

As  soon  as  Frank  finished,  I  got  the  passengers, 
back  into  the  train  and  gave  them  some  parting  ad- 

118 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

vice;  then  we  broke  for  the  horses.  After  we  were 
gone,  I  understand,  tlie  train  crew  and  Bill  Gilbert 
chopped  up  a  platform  to  start  a  fire  in  the  engine. 

We  ran  past  the  section  house.  I  was  still  carry- 
ing the  bananas.  The  mistress  of  the  house  stood  at 
the  window  with  the  child  in  her  arms.  I  passed  a 
cluster  of  bananas  to  the  baby.     The  woman  cried: 

"Don't  you  touch  those  nasty,  stolen  bananas ! 
They'll  choke  you !" 

"My  good  woman,"  I  said,  "you're  excited.  He'll 
never  know  the  difference !"  I  peeled  one  and  handed 
it  to  the  baby.  The  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was  eating 
with  one  hand  and  waving  good-bye  with  the  other. 

As  we  mounted  a  man  came  riding  full  speed  over 
a  rise.  I  threw  my  revolver  down  on  him,  com- 
manded him  to  halt,  and  made  him  ride  beside  me 
while  we  galloped  down  the  right  of  way.  He  was 
an  old  cattleman  named  Black,  whom  I'd  known  at 
El  Reno. 

We  five  masked  men  and  our  captive  passed  the 
section  gang,  which  had  been  resting  not  more  than 
four  hundred  yards  away  all  during  the  robbery. 
When  they  saw  me  they  began  digging  very  assidu- 
ously. We  cut  a  fence  with  our  wire  nippers  and 
crossed  into  a  pasture.  I  was  really  suffering  from 
that  bearskin  mask,  what  with  the  heat  and  the 
fumes  of  tobacco,  and  I  took  the  risk  of  removing 

119 


BEATING    BACK 

it.  Here  the  cattleman  began  begging  us  not  to  kill 
him.     I  said: 

"You're  in  no  danger.  We're  keeping  you  with 
us  so  you  won't  give  any  information." 

He  said:  "You're  perfectly  welcome  to  what 
money  I  have." 

"We  don't  want  your  money,"  I  said.  Then,  siz- 
ing him  up,  I  decided  to  take  a  chance.  "I  know 
you,"  I  said.  "If  I  let  you  go  now,  will  you  forget 
the  day's  transaction?"  He  promised  and  rode 
away  to  Chickasha.  He  kept  his  promise,  as  the 
old-time  cattleman  had  a  way  of  doing.  In  the  sub- 
sequent proceedings  his  testimony  would  have  saved 
the  Territorial  authorities  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

Within  an  hour  the  whole  county  was  in  pursuit. 
The  details  of  that  afternoon's  riding  would  be  only 
repetitions  of  escape  after  escape.  The  first  thing 
we  did  when  we  crossed  out  of  the  thickly  inhabited 
country  was  to  drop  a  match  inta  the  dry  grass. 
This  started  a  prairie  fire,  which  obliterated  our 
tracks  and  checked  pursuit  from  one  side.  In  Cold 
Springs  Canon  I  called  a  halt  to  water  the  horses 
and  look  over  the  loot.  When  we  went  through  the 
contents  of  the  way  safe  we  found  seventy-five  hun- 
dred dollars  in  express  packages.  We  hadn't 
counted  on  that;  it  put  new  heart  into  us.  Twice, 
as  we  lay  there  in  the  canon  bodies  of  officers  ap- 

120 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

proached  so  close  that  we  could  hear  their  voices. 
We  waited  in  the  canon  until  dark,  and  made  our 
way  to  a  friendly  house.  We  had  just  finished  sup- 
per, when  our  host  was  called  to  the  gate.  Fifteen 
or  twenty  marshals  stood  there  asking  the  way  to 
Bob  Moore's  place  on  the  Washita. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  asked  our  host. 

"The  Jennings  gang  has  held  up  a  train.  We 
hear  they're  making  for  Moore's,"  said  the  leader. 
We  waited  under  the  windows,  prepared  for  trouble 
in  case  they  came  in;  but  they  rode  on.  And  then, 
after  a  conference,  we  split  up.  Frank  and  I  dou- 
bled back  through  the  cordon  to  El  Reno,  figuring 
that  they  would  never  look  for  us  there.  And  a 
little  after  ten  o'clock  I  put  into  operation  a  plan 
which  had  been  growing  in  my  mind  all  day. 

As  soon  as  the  town  lights  went  out,  Frank  and  I 
mounted  and  rode  due  west  to  Shawnee — nearly 
eighty  miles,  as  the  road  goes,  between  ten  o'clock 
on  the  night  of  October  first  and  daylight  of  October 
second.  Waiting  in  the  outskirts  until  the  county 
officials  should  be  settled  in  their  offices,  I  rode  into 
town  and  called  on  Mr.  Pittman,  the  district  attor- 
ney of  the  county.  His  mouth  flew  open  with  sur- 
prise when  he  saw  me. 

"Pittman,"  I  said,  "I've  been  hearing  a  lot  of 
fool  talk  about  my  robbing  trains  and  going  on  the 

121 


BEATING    BACK 

sdodge.  I'm  tired  of  it.  I  intend  to  surrender,  face 
the  music,  and  clear  myself.  I've  a  few  things  to  set- 
tle up  first,  then  I'm  coming  in.  This  is  October 
first;  two  weeks  from  to-day,  October  fifteenth,  I'll 
return.  Have  your  officers  ready."  And  as  I  left 
his  office  I  repeated: 

"Make  a  note  of  it — this  is  October  first,  and  I'm 
coming  back  on  October  fifteenth." 

According  to  expectation,  Pittman  was  so  ex- 
cited at  seeing  me  and  hearing  of  my  intentions  that 
the  date  impressed  itself  on  his  mind  only  as  an  in- 
consequential detail.  He  never  thought  to  look  it  up 
at  the  time,  and  when  I  had  use  for  him  it  was  fixed 
in  his  mind — wrong. 

Frank,  who  had  been  showing  himself  to  friends 
about  town,  joined  me,  and  we  rode  a  few  miles  by 
unfrequented  roads  to  Tecumseh,  the  county  seat. 
Going  to  the  saloon  of  Ike  Renfrow,  I  got  him  to 
send  for  Bob  Motley,  the  sheriff,  my  father,  and  my 
brother  John.  Motley  was  my  friend;  I  knew  he 
wouldn't  arrest  me  without  a  warrant.  To  them  I 
talked  just  as  I  had  to  Pittman,  getting  the  false 
date — October  first — into  their  minds.  Everyone 
was  delighted,  and  no  one  thought  to  verify  my 
statement  of  the  date.  This  made  a  perfect  alibi, 
for  the  robbery  had  occurred  eighty  miles  away  at 
noon  of  October  first. 

122 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

When  I  returned  to  Indian  Territory,  I  found  the 
country  still  boiling.  The  pursuit  hadn't  died  out 
after  two  or  three  days,  as  it  used  to  when  I  first 
went  on  the  road.  Again  and  again  in  those  last  few 
months  that  fact  impressed  itself  on  me,  and  I  con- 
tinued to  ignore  it.  Frank  had  split  off  by  himself, 
as  usual,  but  Bud,  Bill,  Little  Dick,  and  I  were  soon 
forced  together  for  mutual  protection.  From  the 
22  ranch,  which  was  under  surveillance  and  unsafe, 
we  rode  into  the  Osage  Nation.  Passing  ourselves 
off  as  marshals,  we  got  a  night's  lodging  from  a 
member  of  the  Indian  police  named  Freeman.  In. 
the  morning  we  dodged  a  cordon  of  marshals,  and 
reached  a  friendly  cow  camp.  Everyone  was  out. 
We  were  just  getting  dinner,  when  a  nester  knocked 
at  the  door.  At  the  gate  three  others  were  watering 
their  horses.  They  had  Winchesters  tied  to  the  sad- 
dle horn  with  strings,  nester-fashion.  You  could 
have  riddled  them  before  they  got  those  guns  loose. 

We  were  making  ourselves  at  home — Bill  and  I 
reading,  Bud  taking  a  nap  on  the  bed,  Little  Dick 
cooking  dinner.  The  nester,  never  suspecting  us, 
asked  if  we'd  seen  any  hard-looking  characters. 

"The  Jennings  outlaws  are  around  here  some- 
where," he  said,  "and  we've  took  the  road  to  clean 
'em  up." 

The  thought  of  these  men  hunting  us  without  war- 
123 


BEATING    BACK 

rant  of  law  raised  one  of  my  old,  desperate  rages.  I 
walked  over  to  him. 

"Do  you  know  these  outlaws.'"'  I  asked. 

"No,"  he  said,  "but  we're  sure  going  to  take  them 
in  if  we  find  'em." 

"Then  here's  your  chance!"  I  said.  "We're  the 
outlaws." 

He  acted  as  I  thought  he  would — staggered  back 
with  one  hand  before  his  face. 

"I  didn't  mean  you  no  harm,"  he  said  when  he  got 
"his  tongue.     "I  didn't  know  you  was  the  fellows." 

"Have  you  a  wife  and  children?"  I  said.  "Then 
get  back  to  them  and  thank  God  I've  got  a  little 
mercy  on  them.  You  aren't  worth  killing — going 
out  for  people  who  don't  bother  you."  The  posse 
ran  like  sheep.  The  leader  was  keeping  his  eye  on 
me  as  he  mounted,  and  he  missed  the  stirrup  with  his 
foot  five  or  six  times. 

This  was  no  place  for  us.  We  hurried  dinner,  and 
started  down  the  road.  Watching  everything,  I  saw 
a  mark  across  the  wagon  track  where  a  man  had  evi- 
dently dragged  his  foot.  In  my  circus  days,  I  re- 
membered, the  advance  crowd,  when  they  wished  to 
notify  the  main  caravan  of  a  bad  road,  used  to  mark 
it  in  such  a  manner.  I  spoke  to  the  boys  about  this. 
They  laughed  at  me,  but  I  insisted  on  turning  into 
the  prairie.     A  long  time  afterward  I  learned  that 


THE    LAST    CAMrAIGN 

I  was  right.  The  marshals  were  riding  ahead.  They 
had  taken  with  thcin  a  horse  thief,  who  didn't  dare 
refuse  for  fear  of  giving  himself  away.  He  had  man- 
aged to  dismount  and  leave  that  sign.  Otherwise 
we  should  have  ridden  into  an  ambush. 

For  the  next  few  days  it  was  ride  and  dodge,  ride 
and  dodge,  tired  from  continual  travel  and  loss  of 
sleep,  often  hungry,  always  in  a  high  state  of  irrita- 
tion. The  posse  of  citizens,  each  commanded  by  a 
deputy  marshal,  had  spread  fan-shape  over  the 
whole  county.  Bud  Ledbetter,  the  famous  marshal 
from  Muskogee,  had  gone  out  after  us;  and,  when 
Ledbetter  started  a  hunt,  he  was  after  the  man,  not 
the  mileage.  Once  a  settler  with  whom  we  risked 
staying  over  night  almost  betrayed  us.  Once  we 
rode  straight  into  a  camp  in  the  darkness.  While 
we  debated  whether  to  run,  to  attack,  or  to  wait,  I 
saw  b}'  certain  signs  that  these  were  hunters,  not 
marshals.  They  turned  out  to  be  highbrows  from 
Massachusetts — one  a  Harvard  professor.  I  rode 
in  among  them,  impersonating  a  deputy  marshal,  and 
demanded  their  hunting  permit.  When  they'd  dug 
that  up  from  the  wagon,  I  asked  severely: 
"Have  you  any  whiskey  among  your  effects.'"' 
To  bring  whiskey  into  Indian  Territory  was  a  vio- 
lation of  the  law.  The  Harvard  professor  stam- 
mered as  he  declared  that  he  hadn't. 

125 


BEATING    BACK 

"Don't  you  lie  to  me,  young  man,"  I  said,  and 
out  came  the  jug.     I  lifted  it. 

"Here's  to  you,"  I  said.  "We  aren't  marshals. 
We're  outlaws!"  At  first  they  were  scared.  Then 
their  manners,  which  were  distant,  reserved  and 
Yankee,  thawed  out.  They  asked  us  to  supper.  We 
accepted,  and  everyone  had  a  good  time. 

We  tried  to  put  up  again  at  the  22  ranch,  and 
found  that  country  still  dangerous.  We  tried  to  es- 
cape toward  Arkansas,  and  were  beaten  back.  By 
now  we  looked  like  scarecrows.  No  one  had  shaved 
for  a  fortnight.  The  brush  and  rocks  had  torn  our 
clothes  into  rags.  My  trousers  became  so  frayed 
that  they  wouldn't  stay  in  my  boots.  That  fix  was 
uncomfortable;  further,  the  state  of  our  clothing 
marked  us  for  identification.  We  decided  to  raid  the 
store  at  Gushing,  now  the  heart  of  the  oil  country, 
but  then  a  little  settlement. 

The  storekeeper  knew  Bud  and  Bill.  Therefore, 
they  stayed  outside  in  the  timber,  while  Dick  and  I 
rode  into  town  late  at  night.  The  merchant  slept  in 
the  rear  of  his  store.  We  knocked  at  his  window, 
asking  him  to  get  up. 

"Bob  Jones,  across  the  river,  is  dead.  We  want 
to  get  some  burial  clothes  for  him,"  I  said.  He  came 
to  the  front  door,  half  dressed.  When  he  saw  me 
in  my  tattered  clothes  and  my  Russian  anarchist  red 

126 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

whiskers,  he  backed  off  like  a  crawfish.     I  displayed 
my  guns  carelessly,  and  said : 

"My  dear  fellow,  we  want  four  suits  of  clothes 
with  chicken  fixings,  nothing  more.  If  we  get  them, 
all  right.  Otherwise  I'll  break  your  neck.  Dick, 
engage  this  person  in  conversation  while  I  look 
around."  I  was  puttering  among  the  shelves  and 
showcases,  trying  to  get  an  exact  fit  for  all  our 
party,  when  I  happened  to  glance  over  my  shoulder. 
The  storekeeper  had  his  eye  on  me,  and  Dick  was  no- 
where in  sight.  Chagrined  and  annoyed  to  think 
that  Dick  would  desert  me  while  my  back  was  turned, 
I  whirled  on  the  storekeeper,  asking: 

"Where  did  that  man  go.'^" 

"To  the  other  end  of  the  store,"  he  said. 

"Let  us  go  down  together  and  seek  him,"  I  said, 
getting  sarcastic,  for  I  was  as  mad  as  the  devil. 
There  stood  Dick  rummaging  round  the  shelves  and 
saying  pleasantly:      "I   can't   find   'em   anywhere!" 

"What  are  you  looking  for.'*"  I  asked. 

"Brown  cigarcet  papers,"  he  said. 

I  didn't  dare  begin  to  express  myself  for  fear  I'd 
lose  my  self-control.     I  only  told  him  to  hurry  up. 

"Boon's  I  get  them  cigareet  papers !"  he  said. 

The  storekeeper  found  them,  and  Dick — in  the 
midst  of  a  robbery  mind  you — handed  the  man  a 
quarter,  remarking: 

127 


BEATING    BACK 

*'Six  bunches  for  a  quarter  anywhere  in  the  U. 
S.  A."  That  was  Little  Dick  all  over.  He  didn't 
want  much,  but  he  wanted  it  right  away,  and  he'd 
risk  his  life  to  get  it. 

Before  we  reached  the  timber  we  heard  a  Win- 
chester pumping  into  the  air  for  a  signal  to  rouse 
the  town.  A  new  pursuit  was  on;  for  days  it  was 
hide  and  seek  again. 

Once  we  stopped  at  a  log  house  and  bargained 
with  a  woman  for  dinner.  As  she  started  to  fry  the 
bacon  a  "dominicker"  rooster  ran  past  the  door. 
My  mouth  watered.  We  hadn't  eaten  fresh  meat  for 
a  week. 

"If  you'll  cook  that  for  dinner  I'll  give  you  a  dol- 
lar," I  said. 

"Mister,  he's  the  only  chicken  I  got,  but  all 
right,"  she  said.  "You-uns  got  to  help  catch  him." 
He  was  an  athlete  of  a  rooster.  We  must  have 
chased  him  half  an  hour  before  we  began  shooting. 
At  that  we  always  missed  him,  and  finally  the  woman 
herself  laid  him  out  with  a  block  of  wood.  We 
bought  him  for  dinner,  but  we  had  him  for  supper. 
It  took  six  hours  to  cook  him. 

She  was  alone  in  the  cabin  with  two  small  chil- 
dren, a  boy  and  a  girl.  I  asked  what  had  become  of 
her  husband. 

"Him  and  me  had  a  fight  this  mawnin',  and  he's 
128 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

done  gone,"  he  said.  "It  was  over  the  boy.  He 
p'intedly  hates  that  child.  He  ain't  hisn,  he's  mine. 
You  see,  he  ain't  got  no  paw." 

We  had  just  set  down  to  eat  the  dominicker  when 
the  husband  came  back — a  big,  stocky  fellow  with  a 
bull  neck  and  a  brutal  face.  I  bade  him  good  day ; 
he  didn't  answer,  but  stepped  up  to  the  table  and 
roared : 

"There's  that brat  eating  again !" 

The  woman  fired  up  and  said:  "You  just  shut 
your  mouth.  You  told  me  you  was  goin'  to  leave. 
I  don't  see  why  you  don't  stay  leaved." 

At  that  he  made  to  strike  her,  and  I  interceded. 

"This  is  my  place !"  he  said,  and  struck  again.  I 
pulled  my  45  and  knocked  him  down  with  the  bar- 
rel. 

"Bill,"  I  said,  "take  out  this  critter,  hog  tie  him, 
and  sting  him  a  little  with  your  quirt."  While  the 
husband  was  yelling  for  mercy  outside,  I  asked  the 
woman : 

"Do  you  care  anything  about  this  man.'"' 

"No,  sir,"  she  said.     "I  jest  p'intedly  don't." 

"All  right,"  said  I.  "We'll  see  he  doesn't  bother 
you  again." 

"I  wisht  you  would,"  said  she. 

We  passed  the  hat  and  left  her  a  few  dollars. 
Then  we  tied  her  man's  hands  together  behind  him, 

129 


BEATING    BACK 

hitched  a  rope  to  him,  mounted,  and  drove  him 
ahead  of  us  down  the  road.  Whenever  he  let  the 
rope  go  slack  we'd  take  a  few  shots  in  the  direction 
of  his  heels.  By  this  time  we'd  gone  three  or  four 
miles  he  couldn't  run  any  longer  to  save  his  life.  I 
let  him  get  his  breath ;  then  I  gave  him  a  lecture  on 
treating  women.     And  I  finished : 

"I  am  going  to  give  you  a  chance  for  your  life. 
Take  it  on  the  run.  If  you  fall  down  or  look  back 
or  show  that  you  aren't  going  your  best,  I'll  kill 
you.  If  you  ever  go  near  that  woman  again,  I'll 
hear  about  it;  and  I'll  bring  the  boys  and  hang 
you  to  a  black-jack  limb."  He  ran  zigzagging 
like  a  log  wagon,  but  he  beat  all  records  for  rough 
ground. 

The  hardships  began  telling  on  us  all,  and  Bud 
developed  the  first  symptoms  of  a  sickness  which 
later  nearly  carried  him  off.  We  made  Red  Here- 
ford's place  on  Duck  Creek,  where  we  saw  Bud  put 
to  bed.  By  now  the  country  seemed  quieter.  We 
thought  the  marshals  had  called  off  the  chase.  But 
we  didn't  know  Bud  Ledbetter.  He'd  changed  his 
tactics,  that  was  all.  Nevertheless  we  managed  to 
scatter  in  safety,  first  making  an  appointment  to 
meet  at  the  Spike-S  on  December  first  in  order  to 
rob  the  lone  messenger  of  that  Indian  payment.  For 
two  or  three  weeks  I  kept  under  cover  at  a  friendly 

130 


*' 


\    •: 


k 


H^ 


THE    LAST    CAMPAIGN 

ranch,    leading    a    monotonous    life    for    a    change. 

Wlicn  I  came  out  of  retirement  and  started  to 
keep  my  appointment  at  the  Spike-S  ranch,  I  had 
some  experiences  which  should  have  warned  me  that 
the  country  could  never  hold  us  any  more.  If  there 
were  two  men  in  the  whole  territory  on  whom  I  de- 
pended, they  were  Sam  Baker  and  Red  Hereford. 
I  stopped  at  Baker's  on  my  way  out.  His  wife  told 
me  that  he  had  gone  to  find  us  boys.  Her  manner 
made  me  a  little  suspicious.  When,  presently, 
Baker  came  in  he  seemed  cordial  enough,  but  he 
asked  where  we  were  going,  approaching  the  sub- 
ject indirectly.  Curiosity  about  the  other  fellow's 
whereabouts  wasn't  etiquette  in  our  set. 

The  next  night  I  made  Red  Hereford's  with  Bill, 
whom  I'd  met  on  the  road.  There,  also,  the  at- 
mosphere had  changed.  It  wasn't  what  he  said — it 
was  his  manner.  When  he  started  for  the  barn  to 
feed  I  went  along. 

He  said :    "You  needn't  mind,"  and  I  said: 

"Oh,  it's  a  pleasure,  I  assure  you."  All  the  way 
I  kept  at  his  elbow,  my  hand  on  my  gun.  Back  in 
the  house  I  never  left  him  for  a  moment.  When 
bedtime  came  I  insisted  on  sleeping  with  him — in  all 
my  clothes,  even  my  spurs — and  constantly  I  made 
indirect  remarks  about  what  I'd  do  to  an  informer  in 
case  of  attack.     I  was  right  in  my  surmises,  as   I 

131 


BEATING    BACK 

learned  afterward.  That  night  Bud  Ledbetter  and 
Paydon  Talbot  lay  out  on  a  spur  of  the  mountain, 
not  five  hundred  yards  away,  waiting  for  Hereford 
to  flash  a  light  back  and  forth  at  a  window,  as  a 
signal  for  attack. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE    END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

WE  rode  to  the  Spike-S  on  the  evening  of 
November  30th,  1897,  a  day  ahead  of 
the  appointment.  The  weather  was  a 
good  setting  for  the  drama  of  the  next  day.  A  dry 
storm  had  come  on.  The  north  wind  blew  cold  and 
icy,  whirling  immense  billows  of  dust  across  the  prai- 
rie, befogging  earth  and  heaven  with  a  dun-colored 
smudge.  The  sumac  bushes  and  long  grasses  lashed 
the  ground  as  though  they  also  wanted  to  lunge 
forth  into  the  sweep  of  sand  and  dust.  The  gray 
tumble  weeds  went  leaping  and  spinning  by  like  liv- 
ing things.  The  wind  became  a  voice,  calling  across 
incalculable  desert  wastes.  As  we  approached  the 
Spike-S  at  twilight  we  saw  the  evergreens  in  the 
little  private  ranch  graveyard  writhing  and  weav- 
ing like  giant  ghosts  of  the  dead  beneath. 

But  there  was  smoke  in  the  chimney  of  the 
Spike-S  and  there  was  a  light  in  the  window.  And 
as  we  rode  up  the  path  Mrs.  Harless  came  running 
from   the   front   door.      The   fringed    points   of  her 

133 


BEATING    BACK 

wrap  snapped  in  the  gale  and  her  breath  caught  in 
the  wind  as  she  said: 

"Glad  to  see  you.  Bud  and  Frank  are  here,  but 
Dick  hasn't  showed  up."  She  had  been  alone  at  the 
ranch  with  her  young  brother  "Dutch"  and  a 
friend,  Miss  Ida  Hurst.  John  Harless  was  then  in 
jail  on  a  charge  of  changing  brands. 

We  had  a  supper  which  I  remember  yet.  We 
talked  and  laughed  and  joked;  Frank  sat  down  at 
the  organ,  and  we  all  sang.  At  times  the  wind  be- 
came so  heavy  that  we'd  keep  still  for  a  minute,  won- 
dering if  something  wasn't  going  to  give  way. 

As  such  a  gust  died  down  we  heard  a  noise  at  the 
door.  We  listened,  and  the  sound  repeated  itself. 
Some  one  was  knocking  timidly.  We  put  our  Win- 
chesters within  reach,  and  Mrs.  Harless  opened  the 
door. 

A  neighbor  named  Kelley  stepped  in,  his  hat  pulled 
down  over  his  face.  He  stood  digging  at  one  eye 
with  a  broken  thumb  nail;  then  he  saw  the  rifles  and 
started.  In  stammering  words  he  explained  to  Mrs. 
Harless.  He  had  got  lost — plumb  lost.  It  was  so 
dark  you  couldn't  see  your  hand  before  your  face, 
till  he  sighted  the  light.  No,  he  wouldn't  take  a 
cheer.  Now  he'd  found  his  way,  he'd  better  be  go- 
ing. Wasn't  it  reedic'lous  for  him  to  get  lost?  It 
was,  shore. 

134< 


THE    END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

As  soon  as  we  took  him  in  we  had  dropped  back 
into  careless  attitudes.  Frank  went  on  fingering  the 
melodeon ;  the  rest  of  us  hummed  a  song  in  an  un- 
dertone; but  no  one  paid  Mr.  Kelley  much  outward 
attention.  Inwardly  I  was  thinking.  That  sounded 
a  little  like  a  fish  story.  Still,  Mrs.  Harless  seemed 
unsuspecting.  Only  when  he  had  mounted  and  gone 
did  she  turn  to  me,  saying: 

"He  lost !  That  Kelley !  As  if  he  didn't  know  this 
country  as  well  as  I  know  my  kitchen!"  I  jumped 
to  the  door.  He  was  gone,  and  the  sound  of  the 
hoofs  in  the  distance  showed  that  he  was  riding  like 
the  wind. 

It  looked  terribly  suspicious ;  we  all  agreed  to 
that,  though  we  joked  over  it,  and  Frank  drew  a 
laugh  by  imitating  Kelley's  manner.  But  an  outlaw 
can't  afford  to  begin  worrying.  We  put  it  out  of 
mind  and  went  on  with  our  music. 

I  was  wakened  that  night  by  the  hush  and  the 
still  insidious  cold  which  followed  the  death  of  the 
storm.  It  was  less  night  than  a  black  trance  of 
earth  and  air.  I  recalled  the  incident  of  Kelley,  and, 
now  that  I  thought  it  over  alone,  it  looked  a  little 
more  important.  Slumber  overcame  me  again  be- 
fore I  determined  what  to  do,  and  the  next  thing 
Mrs.  Harless  was  calling  us  to  breakfast. 

I  dressed.     I  found  Mrs.  Harless  in  the  kitchen 
135 


BEATING    BACK 

•vrishing  that  Dutch,  her  brother,  would  come  back 
from  tlie  well,  down  by  the  barn,  with  the  bucket  of 
water.  "I  could  have  gone  to  Snake  River  and  back 
by  this  time,"  she  said.  Whatever  apprehension  I 
felt  the  night  before  had  gone  with  the  darkness. 
It  was  a  bright  morning  of  a  Southwestern  winter, 
with  a  clean  tracing  of  frost  on  the  trees.  I  remem- 
ber joking  with  Mrs.  Harless  about  the  absent 
Dutch.  It  was  no  joke  to  Mrs.  Harless  and  Miss 
Hurst,  with  their  morning's  work  waiting  for  that 
water.  Finally  Mrs.  Harless  threw  a  shawl  over  her 
head  and  went  to  find  Dutch.  Meantime  the  rest  of 
the  boys  came  down,  and  we  began  breakfast. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Harless  burst  through  the  door. 
Her  hair  was  falling  down  her  face  in  wisps.  She 
clutched  the  melodeon  for  support  until  she  got  her 
breath  to  shoot  out  the  one  word: 

"Surrounded !"  Then  she  gasped  a  few  particu- 
lars. They  were  in  the  barn — they  were  everywhere 
to  the  north  of  us.  They  had  said  that  she  and 
Miss  Hurst  might  go  down  to  the  graveyard  before 
they  opened  fire. 

"How  many  of  them?"  I  asked. 

"Thirty,"  she  said.  Then  her  arms  flew  up  over 
her  head,  and  her  fists  clenched.  "Thirty  or  forty 
against  four — you  poor  boys — what  is  to  become  of 
you.?" 

136 


THE    END    OF    THE    TRAIL 


Frank  and  Bill  had  left  their  Winchesters  up- 
stairs. They  stole  away  to  get  them.  Bud,  I  re- 
member, was  still  crunching  a  piece  of  bacon  be- 
tween his  teeth. 


1  Tbicketi  .7' • 


:.*i'\ 


^*^^.'      '"   **^. 


V 


■  I  •,h>i%«i«  fffHt* 


X. 


|l 

Outlfovse 


Ranch  House 


\ 


\. 


k.. 


V*       ^       ^         ^   ^:... 
J[    y,.^'        iPeac/j  Ordiard 

A— Firing  line  of  the  marshals;  B — Window  from  which  the  Jen- 
nings boys  fought;  C — Window  from  which  Bud  and  Bill 
fought;  D — Door  from  which  the  bandits  escaped  to  the  peach 
orchard;  E — Corner  from  which  Al  Jennings  shot  ^Marshal  Led- 
better;  F — Line  of  retreat;  G — Refuge  of  the  women. 

"Ain't  this  hell.?"  he  said.     "No  chance  to  feed!" 

The  women  ran  for  it.     We  held  a  brief  council  of 

war.     Evidently  the  attacking  forces  were  all  to  the 

north,  the  only  cover.     In  that  direction,  and  to  the 

right,  stood  the  big  red  barn,  where  Mrs.  Harless 

137 


BEATING    BACK 

had  met  the  marshals.  Directly  opposite  stood  a 
log  house  with  a  stone  chimney.  To  our  left  was 
that  same  thicket  which  had  been  our  old  strong- 
hold at  the  Spike-S.  (See  diagram.)  All  these  po- 
sitions, as  we  soon  found,  were  occupied  by  the 
enemy. 

I  decided  that  Frank  and  I  should  hold  the 
kitchen,  while  Bud  and  Bill  fought  from  the  front 
room.  We  had  no  alternative  but  to  fight.  Our 
horses  were  with  the  enemy  in  the  barn.  If  I  had 
stopped  to  think,  I  should  have  realized  that  the 
moment  had  come  which  I  had  always  expected — the 
moment  of  expiration  when  I  should  die  with  my 
back  to  the  wall.  But  in  such  times  one  doesn't 
think.     He  feels  and  acts. 

I  crept  to  the  kitchen  wmdow,  and  poked  up  my 
head  to  reconnoiter.  Bang!  The  window  smashed 
in  my  face,  a  piece  of  broken  glass  laying  my  cheek 
open. 

Rip !  came  a  volley  along  the  whole  line.  The  in- 
sult of  that  slap  in  the  face  raised  all  my  temper.  I 
threw  up  my  Winchester  and  fired  at  the  log  house, 
where  an  arm  and  hat  had  been  visible  an  instant  be- 
fore. I  saw  the  plaster  fly.  Then  the  fusillade 
opened  in  earnest,  from  all  three  positions  on  their 
line.  The  bullets  sang  everywhere  about  us.  I  re- 
member hearing  a  tin  pan  give  a  "cling"  as  though 

138 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAH. 

a  great  rain  drop  had  struck  it.  An  instant  later 
the  mclodeon  boomed  out  a  deep  note. 

"D  flat!"  said  Frank.  "She's  playing  'Home, 
Sweet  Home!'"  And  all  this  time  we  were  fighting 
methodically — firing  to  draw  a  volley — leaping  back 
— jumping  forward  and  firing  again  to  get  the 
enemy  before  he  sought  cover.  I  kept  hearing  bul- 
lets plump  into  the  wood  above  my  head.  The  posse 
in  the  barn  was  wasting  ammunition  on  the  upper 
story.  The  woodwork  began  splintering  about  our 
feet.  Bud  Ledbetter  and  Paydon  Talbot,  in  the  log 
house,  had  opened  on  the  edge  of  the  floor,  under 
the  impression  that  we  were  lying  down. 

I  had  fired  and  backed  away  from  the  window,  so 
that  I  could  see  into  the  front  room,  when  Bill  got 
his.  I  saw  him  jump  grotesquely  into  the  air  and 
come  down  doubled  up.  I  pumped  my  Winchester, 
jumped  forward,  fired,  and  looked  again.  He  was 
up  and  fighting,  but  I  saw  that  his  boot  top  had 
turned  red. 

In  that  instant  I  happened  to  glance  down.  I  saw 
a  trail  of  blood  on  the  floor ;  a  lazy  stream  was  run- 
ning from  my  left  knee. 

"Here,  too !"  they  say  I  responded.  I  never  knew 
when  I  got  it,  and  through  the  rest  of  the  fight  I  re- 
membered it  only  at  intervals. 

As  I  fired  and  backed  away  again  there  came  a 
139 


BEATING    BACK 

heavy  metallic  clank,  and  a  piece  flew  from  the  stove. 

"That  was  a  45-90,"  said  Frank,  pumping  the 
lever  of  his  gun. 

"She  wasn't — she  was  a  30-120  steel  jacket,"  I 
said.  Between  shots  we  debated  the  matter,  ridicul- 
ing each  other  in  monosyllables,  advancing  data  to 
prove  our  points. 

Small  debris  littered  the  floor — splinters  of  wood, 
fragments  of  glass,  cartridge  shells,  broken  dishes. 
When  I  glanced  into  the  front  room  I  could  see  criss- 
cross trails  where  Bill  had  bled  and  he  and  Bud  had 
trampled  in  it. 

And  then  I  got  mine  again.  I  had  fired,  standing 
sidewise,  and  started  to  leap  away,  when  a  bullet 
clipped  me  across  both  knees  with  such  power  that 
my  legs  knocked  together  and  I  staggered  to  the 
back  wall.  Slight  as  it  was,  I  felt  this  wound  more 
than  the  other.  It  filled  me  with  a  desperate,  chok- 
ing anger.  Sixteen  years  later  I  revisited  the 
Spike-S  for  the  first  time.  As  I  stood  by  the  same 
old  window,  that  sense  of  illogical  but  overwhelming 
rage,  at  being  shot  down  like  a  caged  rat,  swept 
across  me  again.  That  spirit  seemed  to  infect  us  all. 
We  fought  blindly,  desperately,  without  husband- 
ing our  ammunition.  As  I  came  out  of  this  mood 
and  recovered  my  reason,  I  saw  that  the  fire  had 
grown  hotter.     They  had  located  us,  and  stopped 

140 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAH. 

aiming  at  the  second  story.  Every  shot  seemed  to 
plump  into  the  woodwork  man-high.  Piece  after 
piece  jumped  from  the  stove;  fragments  of  broken 
crockery  slapped  our  faces. 

Frank  saw  the  inevitable  first. 

"Gee !"  I  heard  him  gasp.  "We've  got  to  get  out 
of  this — we  haven't  a  chance !" 

"Try  it  lying  down!"  I  yelled.  We  dropped,  just 
as  a  bullet  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  floor,  tearing 
up  splinters. 

"We'll  be  killed  like  rats!"  repeated  Frank.  It 
was  no  time  for  hesitation,  I  decided  at  once. 

"You  and  Bill  go  to  the  orchard !"  I  said.  "Fog 
'em  from  there,  and  Bud  and  I  will  come."  They 
started;  I  went  to  my  station  at  the  window  and 
fired  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  marshals.  When 
I  jumped  back  to  the  door,  Frank  and  Bill  were 
streaking  across  the  yard,  and  the  bullets  were  tear- 
ing dust  around  them  like  hail.  I  couldn't  turn  my 
eyes  away — I  looked  each  moment  to  see  Frank  go 
down.  Once  he  stumbled,  and  I  thought  he  was 
gone,  but  he  came  up  again  unscratched,  dropped 
to  his  knee,  followed  by  Bill,  and  began  pumping 
lead  into  the  barn  at  the  left  of  their  firing  line.  The 
log  house  wasn't  within  his  line  of  fire.  The  shooting 
from  the  barn  died  down. 

"Come  on,  Al !"  yelled  Frank. 
141 


BEATING    BACK 

Bud  and  I  made  our  break.  It  occurred  to  me 
that  we'd  better  finish  off  the  barn  before  we  took 
to  the  open.  We  rushed  to  the  front  corner  of  the 
house.  As  we  whipped  up  our  Winchesters  a  hat 
appeared  above  the  rock  foundation  of  the  barn. 
Bud  and  I  shot  together;  the  hat  jumped  into  the 
air. 

"Got  his  head !"  I  said.  At  once  the  fire  from 
the  barn  stopped.  We  had  shot  Deputy  Marshal 
Lewis  through  the  hair — not  the  head — and  the 
nesters  in  his  force  had  taken  to  a  corn  crib. 

A  big  gun  opened  from  the  grove  at  the  other 
end  of  the  line.  Those  fellows  were  in  a  position  to 
rake  our  backs  as  we  made  toward  the  peach  or- 
chard, and  a  man  who  forgets  such  things  in  the  heat 
of  battle  gets  killed.  I  ran  to  the  southwest  cor- 
ner and  pumped  a  few  shots  at  them.  My  move- 
ment stopped  all  shooting  in  that  quarter — they 
thought  we  were  charging  them,  and  ran  away. 
Now,  I  figured,  was  the  time  to  finish  the  battle. 
Both  flanks  were  silenced;  there  remained  only  the 
forces  of  the  log  house  at  the  center  of  the  line.  I 
dodged  to  the  northwest  corner  of  the  house.  As  I 
reached  firing  position  a  head  and  arm  shot  out  from 
behind  the  chimney  of  the  log  house.  I  fired  and  he 
fired,  almost  as  one  motion.  I  felt  a  slap  in  the  face 
— his  bullet  had  torn  a  lath  from  the  corner  of  the 

142 


THE    END    OF    THE    TRAH. 

house.  I  saw  his  gun  and  arm  go  up  in  the  air  and 
drop  out  of  sight. 

"Another!"  I  said  to  myself.  This  was  hanging 
now,  and  I  didn't  care — hadn't  time  to  care.  I 
pumped  in  another  shell  as  a  puff  of  smoke  came 
from  a  crack  in  the  log  house.     I  fired  at  it. 

And  instantly  shooting  ceased  from  that  quarter 
— the  enemy  was  silenced  altogether.  That  log 
house,  it  appears,  formed  the  key  to  their  position. 
In  it  were  only  Bud  Ledbetter  and  Paydon  Talbot. 
Those  two  men  had  done  more  execution  than  all  the 
rest  put  together.  Bill's  wound  and  both  my  wounds 
came  from  that  steel-jacketed  30-caliber  Winches- 
ter which  Ledbetter  carried,  and  to  this  day  the 
marks  of  that  little  gun  in  the  Spike-S  wall  show 
that  he  landed  most  of  the  effective  shots. 

My  first  bullet  from  the  corner  had  wounded  Led- 
better in  the  shoulder;  my  second  had  struck  the 
masonry  just  in  front  of  Talbot  and  filled  his  eyes 
with  plaster.  I  had  put  the  leaders  out  of  com- 
mission at  one  stroke.  How  we  lived  through  that 
fight,  I  can't  see  yet.  They  were  firing  at  less  than 
a  hundred  and  twenty-five  yards,  and  they  could 
shoot,  too.  Mrs.  Harless  counted  two  hundred  and 
eighty  holes  on  the  north  side  of  the  Spike-S,  be- 
sides those  which  went  through  the  windows  and  left 
no   mark.      Frank   had   twenty   bullet  holes   in  his 

143 


BEATING    BACK 

clothes.  As  for  us,  though  we  had  silenced  the 
enemy,  we  had  wounded  only  one  man — Bud  Led- 
better.  How  large  their  force  was  I  shall  never 
know.  Bud  Ledbetter  has  said  that  he  had  only 
seven  men.  He  means  seven  marshals — he  doesn't 
count  the  nesters.  Dutch,  and  another  friend, 
whom  they  held  captive  in  the  barn,  say  that  they 
counted  twenty-seven. 

"They've  quit ;  let's  get  out,"  shouted  Frank.  We 
broke  and  ran  across  open  prairie  to  the  south.  No 
one  fired  until  we  got  nearly  out  of  range,  when 
some  nester  opened  once  with  a  45-90  Winchester. 
By  now  I  realized  that  I  was  wounded.  The  blood 
pumped  and  chugged  in  my  boot,  and  every  step 
gave  me  agony.  But  I  clenched  my  teeth  and 
pressed  on. 

We  had  crossed  the  divide  a  mile  from  the  house 
before  we  dared  stop  to  examine  our  wounds  and 
hold  a  conference.  Transportation  was  our  prob- 
lem. All  our  stock,  all  the  ranch  stock,  remained 
with  the  enemy  in  the  barn.  Frank  suggested  a  bold 
flank  movement — skirt  the  graveyard,  attack  them 
suddenly  from  the  rear,  drive  them  off,  and  get  our 
horses.  We  could  have  done  it  I  verily  believe,  so 
thoroughly  had  we  beaten  them.  However,  we'd 
have  had  to  kill  a  good  many,  so,  of  course,  it  is  bet- 
ter that  we  didn't  try.     But  I  felt  that  we  couldn't 

144 


THE    END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

risk  it  with  two  wounded  men — no  telling  how  long 
we'd  last.  The  best  thing,  I  said,  was  to  make  a  get- 
away, for  now  the  whole  country  would  be  roused. 
So  we  crawled  on  to  Snake  Creek,  where  Bill  and  I 
made  shift  of  dressing  our  wounds,  while  Bud  and 
Frank  guarded  our  rear. 

How  Bill  walked  at  all  I  couldn't  see.  I  could 
have  put  my  hand  into  the  hole  in  his  leg.  ]My 
wound  was  smaller,  but  eventually  more  troublesome. 
That  steel- jacketed  bullet  had  lost  its  core  as  it  came 
through  the  boards,  and  only  the  jacket  had  entered 
my  leg.  It  drove  a  piece  of  my  corduroy  trousers 
ahead  of  it ;  and  there  the  foreign  matter  stuck  for 
months,  making  constant  trouble. 

We  went  on  from  there,  without  horses,  without 
any  means  of  escape  but  our  own  feet ;  and  two  of 
us  dragged  wounded  legs.  The  mountains  offered 
our  only  hope.  To  reach  them  we  must  pass  across 
a  stretch  of  open  prairie,  where  we  would  be  a  fair 
target  if  the  marshals  pursued  us.  We  decided  to 
take  the  risk.  We  forded  the  icy  Snake  Creek,  and 
reached  the  foothills.  It  had  turned  bitter  cold 
and  a  storm  was  coming.  Bud  and  Frank  warmed 
themselves  by  stamping  and  beating  their  arms.  Bill 
and  I  hadn't  the  energy  for  that.  Before  the  day 
ended,  the  blood  on  my  wound  had  frozen.  Each 
step  racked  me  with  pain,  and  mentally  I  was  in  that 

145 


BEATING    BACK 

state  of  depression  which  follows  a  battle.  Never 
have  I  known  such  misery. 

All  day  we  crawled  along,  and  met  no  one  except 
an  Indian  woman  gathering  wood.  Just  a  little  day- 
light remained  when  we  saw  some  half-wild  Indian 
ponies  grazing  on  the  banks  of  a  stream.  Frank 
and  Bud  went  to  catch  them.  While  they  were  gone 
I  heard  the  sound  of  a  wagon.  I  thought  it  meant 
pursuit.  Bill  and  I  dropped  to  our  stomachs,  our 
rifles  ready.  The  wagon  came  into  sight.  It  carried 
two  Utche  Indians.  A  hundred  yards  away  they 
stopped  and  began  to  gather  firewood. 

I  had  thought  that  I  couldn't  walk  any  more,  but 
when  I  saw  that  I  ran  as  I  used  to  run  on  tlie  cinder 
track.  We  showed  our  guns.  Without  a  word  the 
two  Indians  let  us  grab  the  bridles.  Even  when  we 
told  them  that  we'd  pay  them  for  the  use  of  the 
team  they  made  no  comment.  But,  as  Frank  and 
Bill  joined  us,  and  we  prepared  to  start,  one  asked 
in  a  halting  voice: 

"Where  you  go.?" 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.  We  dared  not  leave  them 
behind.  For  the  rest  of  that  journey  they  were  our 
captives.  They  sat  cross-legged  in  the  wagon  bed, 
their  black  hair  falling  in  straight  bangs  over  their 
foreheads,  the  pendants  of  tarnished  silver  in  their 
ears   swinging  with  the  motion.     For  two   days  I 

146 


THE    END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

never  heard  them  say  a  word — they  communicated 
with  each  other  only  by  gestures. 

Then  came  a  period  of  complete  misery,  while  we 
dodged  through  the  mountains  seeking  a  way  out. 
Cold  rain,  sleet,  mud,  all  tlie  caprices  of  a  southern 
winter,  hampered  our  travel.  Our  wounds  became 
inflamed ;  at  intervals  Bill  and  I  were  delirious ;  at 
other  times  the  jolting  of  the  wagon  made  me  whim- 
per with  pain  and  weakness.  My  fever  increased.  I 
thought  my  throat  would  crack.  That  was  bad 
enough,  but  worse  luck  followed.  Bud  fell  desper- 
ately ill  from  the  complaint  that  had  troubled  him 
before  we  met  at  the  Spike-S.  Frank  had  three  in- 
valids and  two  captives  on  his  hands. 

A  brief  chronology  of  those  seven  days  runs  about 
as  follows :  The  first  night  we  went  south  through 
Okmulgee,  making  the  passage  of  that  little  Indian 
town  after  everyone  had  gone  to  bed.  The  next 
day  we  lay  in  the  brush.  That  night  Frank  tried 
to  drive  back  toward  Oklahoma,  where  we  had 
friends.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  saw  that  he 
had  lost  his  way.  He  was  on  the  Eufala  trail,  and 
it  was  too  late  for  turning  back.  We  four,  the 
three  half-delirious  invalids  and  the  worn-out  driver, 
held  a  conference.  Over  tlie  mountain  lived  one  man 
who  would  help  us — Benny  Price.  He  was  not  an 
outlaw,  but  a  friend,  nevertheless.     At  the  foot  of 

147 


BEATING    BACK 

the  mountain,  on  the  way  to  Price's,  stood  a  country 
store  where  we  might  get  something  to  eat;  we  had 
fasted  for  forty  hours. 

It  was  the  worst  night  I  ever  saw.  We  three  in- 
vahds  had  to  get  out  and  help  push  the  wagon  up 
the  frozen,  shppery  mountain  road.  At  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning  we  reached  the  store. 

Luck  had  failed  us  again.  The  store  blazed  with 
light.  We  drew  up  by  the  North  Fork  and  con- 
sulted. Hunger  decided  the  matter.  Frank  deter- 
mined to  risk  entering  the  store,  while  we  cripples 
waited  with  the  wagon  and  the  Indians.  Frank  was 
gone  a  long  time.  Bud  and  Bill,  now  that  the  jolt- 
ing had  stopped,  fell  asleep.  I  nearly  dropped  oiF 
to  sleep  myself  when  I  thought  to  look  at  the  In- 
dians. One  of  them  was  missing.  Instinct  told  me 
where  he  had  gone.  I  seized  a  gun  and  broke  for 
the  store. 

In  the  meantime  Frank  had  knocked  at  the  door. 
After  some  moments  of  absolute  silence  it  opened. 
He  stepped  in  to  face  ten  or  twelve  men,  all  armed. 
He  recognized  the  symptoms  at  once.  This  was  a 
night  meeting  of  the  vigilantes.  His  only  chance 
lay  in  a  bluff.  As  carelessly  as  possible  he  asked 
for  cheese,  crackers,  and  canned  goods.  The  store- 
keeper started  to  fill  the  order.  Everything  looked 
serene,  when  the  door  opened,  and  in  popped  our 

148 


THE    END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

Indian.  Before  Frank  could  grab  him  lie  emitted 
the  first  remark  he'd  made  that  trip. 

"1  want  to  go  home !"  he  said. 

Frank  yanked  him  backward  out  of  the  door, 
slipped  his  45,  and  covered  the  crowd,  as  I  stepped 
in  with  my  Winchester.  I  held  the  rear  while  Frank 
kicked  the  Indian  all  the  way  to  our  wagon.  I 
watched  them  aboard,  and  then  said  to  the  crowd, 
sternly  and  emphatically: 

"The  first  one  of  you  yaps  that  sticks  out  his 
head  will  get  it  torn  off."  I  ran  to  the  wagon. 
Frank  laid  leather  on  the  horses ;  we  took  the  banks 
of  the  North  Fork  like  an  avalanche.  Halfway 
across  we  stuck.  All  hands,  except  poor  Bud,  piled 
out.  With  one  man  at  each  wheel  and  one  lashing 
the  horses,  we  got  loose,  and  crossed  into  the  dense 
timber.  We  saw  no  more  of  the  vigilantes.  Before 
morning  we  arrived  at  Ben  Price's.  Here  we  turned 
the  Indians  loose  with  their  wagon.  I  reached  in 
my  pocket  and  gave  them  what  I  took  in  the  dark- 
ness for  a  ten-dollar  bill.  Next  morning  I  found  that 
I'd  handed  over  an  old  Confederate  bill  which  I'd 
carried  for  years  as  a  pocket  piece.  I  hated  to  lose 
it,  and  I'm  betting  that  when  thoses  Utches  tried  to 
pass  it  at  the  country  store  they  hated  just  as  much 
to  have  it ! 

'*When  you  get  back,  you  keep  your  mouths  shut," 
149 


BEATING    BACK 

I  said.  Indians  are  Indians — they  did,  in  spite  of 
the  way  we'd  treated  them.  Both  Ledbetter  and 
Mrs.  Harless  tried  to  pump  them  about  us.  They 
wouldn't  say  a  word. 

*  At  Price's  we  had  our  first  meal  in  three  days. 
Sick  and  fevered  as  we  were,  Frank  had  to  warn  us 
or  we  would  have  gorged  ourselves  to  death.  From 
Ben  Price's  we  went  to  his  father's — he  also  was  an 
honest  man.  Mrs.  Price,  the  elder,  did  what  she 
could  for  us.  Ragged,  dirty,  our  wounds  festering 
and  offensive,  we  were  awful  guests  for  a  decent 
house.  Moreover,  every  hour  we  stayed  put  these 
people  in  danger;  which  helps  account  for  what 
happened  next. 

Sam  Baker  came  to  see  us.  If  you  remember,  I 
stayed  with  him  on  my  way  up  to  the  Spike-S,  and 
I  suspected  him  on  account  of  his  curiosity  about 
my  movements.  I  suspected  him  still  more  when  he 
appeared  among  us  with  a  lie  in  his  mouth.  He  had 
heard  about  the  Spike-S  battle,  he  said.  It  was  a 
great  fight,  but  we  had  killed  two  marshals.  Of 
course  we  hadn't ;  we'd  merely  wounded  Bud  Ledbet- 
ter. We  must  get  clean  out  of  the  Territory,  "or 
they'll  sure  hang  you,"  said  Baker.  He  had  a  sister 
just  in  from  Alabama.  No  one  suspected  her.  We 
could  stay  with  her  until  he  arranged  to  send  us  to 
Arkansas.     There  he  had  many  friends. 

150 


THE    END    OF    THE    TRAH. 

Why  I  listened  to  liim  I  don't  know  yet.  Proba- 
bly my  fever  and  weakness  killed  my  better  judg- 
ment. Frank  was  hot  against  it.  We  could  go,  he 
said  finally;  he  knew  better  than  to  trust  Baker. 
So  we  parted,  and  six  nights  after  the  Spike-S  fight 
Bud,  Bill,  and  I,  all  in  desperate  need  of  a  doctor, 
went  by  Baker's  covered  wagon  to  his  sister's.  As 
the  wagon  rumbled  off,  I  had  the  feeling  that  it  was 
a  hearse.  Once,  on  the  way,  we  considered  overpow- 
ering the  driver,  tying  him  to  a  tree,  and  escaping 
with  the  team.  I  suppose  that  weakness  of  will, 
brought  on  by  fever  and  hardship,  prevented  us. 
When  we  reached  the  house  of  Baker's  sister.  Bud 
became  so  ill  that  we  thought  he'd  die.  Baker  wanted 
to  take  him  home,  and  Bud  consented;  by  now  he 
didn't  care  what  happened  to  him.  And  that  night 
Baker  said  he  was  ready.  He  had  put  quilts,  pil- 
lows, and  provisions  in  an  old  covered  wagon.  "If 
Bud  can't  drive,  I'll  provide  some  one  who  can," 
said  Baker.  When  at  midnight  they  called  me  out 
of  bed  to  start,  I  found  Frank  sitting  on  the  driver's 
seat.  I  was  so  weak  and  incurious  that  I  didn't  ask 
why  he'd  come.  As  a  matter  of  fact.  Baker  had  sent 
for  him,  explaining  that  we  needed  him  badly.  If 
I'd  known  that,  probably  I'd  never  have  started.  I 
thought  Frank  had  come  of  his  own  accord. 

As  the  wagon  jolted  along  I  fell  into  a  delirious 
151 


BEATING    BACK 

half  doze.  The  voice  of  Baker  roused  me.  He  was 
bidding  Frank  good-bye. 

"Just  keep  straight  along  that  road,"  he  said. 
"No  one  wiU  stop  you  there.     Good  luck!" 

I  dozed  off  again. 

I  was  wakened  by  the  sudden  clamor  of  many 
voices.     Above  them  came  Frank's  voice,  yelling: 

"Damn  you !    Shoot  if  you  want  to !" 

I  sat  up.  A  felled  tree  blocked  the  road.  Across 
it  in  the  moonlight  I  saw  the  barrels  of  a  dozen 
rifles — pointed  at  us. 

Sam  Baker  had  dehvered  the  goods  according  to 
program.  The  long  riders  had  reached  the  end  of 
the  trail. 


CHAPTER  VII 
IN    THE    GRIP    OF    THE    LAW 

CONCERNING  my  fourteen  months  in  county- 
jails,  after  our  capture  at  Rock  Creek,  I 
have  httle  memory,  after  alh  Troublesome 
as  it  was,  the  wound  which  I  had  received  in  the  bat- 
tle at  the  Spike-S  helped  to  soften  my  change  from 
a  wild  man,  loose  in  the  wilderness,  living  an  out-of- 
doors,  adventurous  hfe,  to  a  flabby  prisoner.  The 
hardships  which  I  endured  in  that  week  of  pursuit 
had  given  me  a  bad  turn.  For  a  little  time  I  didn't 
care  whether  I  lived  or  died. 

Bill,  my  brother  Frank,  and  I  were  placed  under 
guard  in  a  hotel  at  Muskogee.  In  the  last  stage  of 
our  ride  from  the  Spike-S  we  had  left  Bud  behind 
us,  sick.  Sam  Baker,  who  led  us  into  Bud  Lcdbet- 
ter's  trap,  betrayed  him  also;  when  the  officers 
brought  him  in,  they  dumped  us  all  together  into  a 
cell  at  the  Muskogee  jail.  Little  Dick — the  fifth 
member  of  our  gang — we  never  saw  again.  He  ar- 
rived late  at  our  rendezvous  on  the  Spike-S.     By 

153 


BEATING    BACK 

then  both  his  pals  and  the  marshals  had  gone.  For 
seven  months  he  was  on  the  dodge  all  over  Indian 
Territory.  At  last  they  cornered  him  and  shot  him 
dead.  A  time  was  coming  when  I  considered  Little 
Dick  the  lucky  member  of  our  outfit. 

That  confinement  in  one  cell  just  suited  me.  It 
left  us  apart  from  the  other  prisoners,  and  gave  us 
a  chance  to  build  our  fences.  The  months  went 
on,  and  the  Territorial  authorities  had  a  hard  time 
to  get  convictions  against  the  Jennings  gang.  Every 
day,  it  seemed,  people  came  to  our  cell  door,  under 
escort  of  the  guards,  to  look  us  over.  Among  them 
I  recognized  men  who  had  the  goods  on  me  abso- 
lutely. But  they  always  shook  their  heads  before 
they  went  away. 

The  jailers  and  marshals  used  every  dodge  known 
to  the  police.  One  such  attempt  I  remember  for  its 
absurd  finish.  The  Spanish  War  broke  out  three 
months  after  they  put  us  in  jail.  I  had  been  a  great 
reader  of  history  and  military  tactics;  I  always 
wanted  a  chance  at  real  warfare.  Here  was  the 
chance — and  I  couldn't  take  it !  Lieutenant  Capron 
came  along,  recruiting  his  company  of  the  Rough 
Riders.  He  visited  me  in  jail;  we  talked  over  the 
regiment. 

So  I  was  full  of  war  and  patriotism  when  they 
operated  on  my  leg.     The  steel  jacket  from  Bud 

154 


IN    THE    GRIP    OF    THE    LAW 

Ledbetter's  Winchester  and  the  bit  of  corduroy 
which  had  been  driven  ahead  of  it  remained  in  my 
wound.  The  detectives  had  heard  that  a  man  under 
ether  will  sometimes  tell  everything  he  knows.  As 
soon  as  I  had  lost  my  senses  a  half  a  dozen  deputies 
stepped  into  the  operating  room.  They  brought 
with  them  a  prison  chaplain,  who  was  present  out  of 
curiosity,  I  suppose. 

They  say  that  I  lay  like  a  log  until  the  ether  had 
nearly  gone  from  me.  Then  I  spoke  just  one  sen- 
tence— "We're  all  Americans  under  the  flag !"  From 
that  time  on  no  one  could  make  the  chaplain  believe 
that  I  wasn't  innocent.  He  said  that  a  man  with 
such  sentiments  in  his  heart  couldn't  possibly  be  a 
criminal. 

The  first  charge  they  lodged  against  me  involved 
a  minor  affair.  A  year  or  so  before  I  had  robbed 
the  safe  in  the  post-office  at  Foyil.  This  was  only 
an  experimental  job.  A  burglar  called  "Yankee" 
had  brought  into  camp  a  "set  screw"  used  for  twist- 
ing the  lock  from  a  safe.  In  robbing  a  train  I  had 
always  used  dynamite  on  the  safe,  which  was  cum- 
bersome and  dangerous.  This  looked  like  a  better 
plan,  and  I  robbed  the  Foyil  post-office  just  to  see 
how  it  worked.  The  lock  came  off  easily,  and  we 
took  seven  hundred  dollars  just  to  pay  expenses. 
The  test  didn't  prove  anything.     This  was  an  obso- 

155 


BEATING    BACK 

lete  safe;  and,  as  Louis,  my  burglar  friend,  says, 
you  need  only  a  parlor  match  to  open  one  of  those 
old-fashioned  boxes. 

When  they  placed  me  on  trial  my  lawyers  had  pre- 
pared a  careful  alibi — and  an  honest  one,  too.  The 
people  who  swore  that  I  was  elsewhere  on  the  day 
of  the  Foyil  robbery  were  simply  mistaken.  How- 
ever, I  got  myself  free  of  that  charge  by  outwitting 
my  own  lawyers.  The  postmaster  identified  me  in 
jail  just  before  the  trial.  I  was  wearing  a  mous- 
tache and  goatee.  He  went  on  the  stand  and  testi- 
fied that  he  had  seen  me  in  his  store,  wearing  a 
moustache  and  goatee,  on  the  afternoon  before  the 
robbery.  His  memory  played  a  trick  on  him.  Just 
before  I  went  to  the  store  I  was  wearing  a  beard. 
At  the  hotel  I  met  a  traveling  salesman  who  had  the 
first  safety  razor  I  ever  saw.  He  offered  to  let  me 
try  it.  I  accepted,  and  appeared  at  the  store  with 
a  face  as  clean  as  a  baby's.  When  he  made  the  slip 
in  identification  I  saw  a  chance.  I  went  on  the  stand 
and  astounded  my  lawyers  by  admitting  that  I  was 
at  the  store  on  the  afternoon  of  the  robbery.  Then 
I  had  the  salesman  called  to  testify  as  to  my  shav- 
ing. This  discredited  the  main  witness  for  the  gov- 
ernment, and  the  jury  acquitted  me.  I  was  guilty, 
of  course. 

Next  they  tried  me  for  shooting  Marshal  Bud 
156 


IN    THE    GRIP    OF    THE    LAW 

Ledbetter  in  the  battle  at  the  Spikc-S — assault  with 
intent  to  kill.  There  I  stood  no  chance.  Yet  they 
worked  on  me  some  wild  and  woolly  law.  Ledbetter 
had  no  right  to  open  fire  unless  he  caught  me  in  the 
act  of  robbery,  or  announced  that  he  was  an  officer 
with  a  warrant.  His  only  announcement  that  morn- 
ing was  a  bullet  through  the  ranch-house  window. 
In  this  opinion  I  am  contradicted  by  the  Supreme 
Court  of  Oklahoma  and  sustained  by  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States.  The  jury  found  me 
guilty;  the  judge  sentenced  me  to  twenty-one  years 
at  Fort  Leavenworth  Penitentiary.  That  night 
some  one  called  his  attention  to  a  little  mistake — 
the  maximum  penalty  was  five  years.  He  was  think- 
ing of  the  law  in  another  State  where  he  used  to 
practice.  He  hastily  reconvened  court,  revoked  the 
former  sentence,  and  handed  me  the  five  years.* 

I  am  speaking  now  from  the  legal  point  of  view, 
not  the  human  one.  And,  from  a  legal  point  of  view, 
the  next  step  was  the  most  arbitrary  of  all.  The 
authorities  wished  to  get  rid  of  me,  because  I  had 
made  a  great  deal  of  work  for  the  law  in  Indian  Ter- 
ritory.    More  than  that,  the  marshals  and  deputies 

*  Bud  Ledbetter  has  lately  denied  that  he  was  wounded  in 
the  Battle  of  the  Spike-S.  I  can  only  reply  that  testimony 
was  introduced  at  my  trial  to  prove  that  I  did  shoot  him  in 
the  shoulder;  and,  on  the  strength  of  that  testimony,  I  was 
convicted. 

157 


BEATING    BACK 

wanted  the  price  on  my  head.  There  were  no  re- 
wards for  the  Foyil  robbery  or  the  "assault"  at  the 
Spike-S  ranch — no  rewards  for  anything  on  which  I 
could  be  convicted  in  the  jurisdiction  of  Muskogee. 
Without  warning,  without  process  of  law,  the  depu- 
ties took  us  all  out  of  the  Muskogee  jail  and  spirited 
us  away  to  Ardmore.  Not  until  a  woman  with  a 
child  in  her  arms  looked  into  my  cell  door  did  I 
know  the  reason.  She  was  the  keeper  of  the  section 
house  between  Chickasha  and  Minco.  Hers  was  the 
child  to  whom  I  gave  the  bananas  after  the  Rock 
Island  train  robbery. 

So  they  tried  me,  separately  from  the  other 
three,  on  a  charge  of  robbing  the  United  States  mail 
with  force  of  arms,  thereby  endangering  life.  For 
that  offense,  under  the  old  Federal  law,  there  is  only 
one  penalty — life  imprisonment.  I  was  rather  glad 
that  they  had  picked  out  this  job.  I  have  told  be- 
fore how  I  rode  all  night  and  impressed  a  false  date 
on  the  minds  of  District  Attorney  Pittman  and 
Sheriff  Motley,  in  order  to  prepare  an  alibi.  I  con- 
fided this  alibi  to  Judge  Cruse,  my  attorney.  Con- 
vinced of  my  innocence,  he  prepared  a  magnificent 
defense.  District  Attorney  Pittman  and  Sheriff 
Motley,  after  the  manner  of  witnesses,  strengthened 
their  testimony  when  the  prosecution  impugned  it. 
I  had  a  dozen  acquaintances  among  the  passengers 

158 


IN    THE    GRIP    OF    THE    LAW 

on  that  Rock  Island  train,  most  of  whom  knew  that 
the  little  man  in  the  bear-skin  mask  was  Al  Jennings. 
None  of  them  came  forward  to  identify  me.  The 
only  strong  testimony  for  the  prosecution  was 
that  of  an  express  messenger.  Nor  had  I  robbed 
the  mail — only  the  express  safe.  However,  a  reg- 
istered letter  was  missed  when  the  smoke  cleared 
away,  and  the  government  presumed  that  I  had 
taken  it. 

The  prosecuting  attorney,  I  understand,  hoped 
only  for  a  disagreement,  but  here  the  authorities 
capped  the  climax  of  illegal  law.  They  wanted  to 
get  clean  rid  of  me,  collect  their  rewards,  and  pro- 
ceed with  the  next  bandit.  So,  while  the  jury  stood 
ten  to  two  for  acquittal,  the  judge  sent  to  them  a 
marshal  with  a  special  message.  If  they  would  find 
me  guilty,  he  would  give  me  the  lightest  sentence 
under  the  law.  Believing  that  this  meant  a  year  and 
a  day,  they  returned  a  verdict  of  guilty.  They  even 
smiled  at  me  reassuringly  as  they  left  the  courtroom. 
But  I  was  a  lawyer,  and  I  understood.  There  was 
only  one  possible  sentence — life.  Which  the  judge 
promptly  gave  me. 

I  am  not  complaining,  understand.  I  committed 
that  robbery — and  many  more.  As  the  law  stands 
I  deserved  about  all  I  got.  Neither  am  I  talking 
wild.     Ten  jurymen  have  sworn  to  this  transaction; 

159 


BEATING    BACK 

their  affidavits  are  on  file  with  the  Department  of 
Justice.  I'm  relating  these  circumstances  of  my  con- 
viction only  because  they  explain  what  happened 
later — why  I  am  sitting  now  at  a  desk  in  a  com- 
fortable hotel  room,  expecting  to  go  to  the  theater 
to-night  and  to  attend  court  at  Enid  to-morrow, 
instead  of  standing  at  a  machine  in  a  dark,  foul 
prison  factory,  expecting  nothing,  so  long  as  life 
remains,  but  darkness,  silence,  routine,  brutality, 
and  dull  torment  of  soul. 

While  the  jury  was  deliberating  and  when — 
though  I  didn't  know  it — the  authorities  despaired 
of  convicting  me,  father  called  me  to  my  cell  door. 
He  seemed  in  special  distress  of  mind. 

"Joe,"  he  said  (Joe  was  his  old  pet  name  for  me), 
"I  must  say  something  to  you  which  I  thought  I'd 
never  have  to  say  in  all  my  life.  If  you  and  Frank 
will  tell  the  whole  story,  implicating  everyone  who's 
been  associated  with  you,  they'll  let  you  walk  out 
free." 

I  loved  and  honored  my  father  more  than  any 
other  man  in  the  world,  and  my  answer  came  hard. 

"Father,"  I  said,  "I'd  rather  be  taken  to  prison 
and  carried  out  by  the  ants  in  pieces." 

Father's  face  changed.  He  looked  almost  happy 
as  he  said: 

160 


IN    THE    GRIP    OF    THE    LAW 

"God  bless  jou,  my  boy — you're  my  son,  after 
all.  It  was  my  duty — but  I'm  glad  you  won't  be- 
tray a  friend.  Joe,  stand  it,  boy,  though  this  is 
the  bitterest  day  of  my  life." 

So  I  rose  in  court  for  my  sentence.  I've  heard 
about  that  moment  when  the  actual  words  are 
spoken,  and  his  fix  gets  on  a  man's  imagination  for 
the  first  time — how  it  goes  througli  him  like  a  knife. 
It  had  no  such  effect  on  me.  With  half  my  brain 
I'd  been  expecting  the  worst.  With  the  other  half 
I  was  still  doing  lawyer  tricks — figuring  on  errors, 
new  trials,  pardons,  commutations.  Even  when  they 
started  me  for  the  Ohio  State  Penitentiary  at  Co- 
lumbus, where  the  Government  used  to  send  part  of 
its  Federal  prisoners,  my  imagination  worked  only 
by  fits  and  starts.  Now  and  then  when  I'd  get  a 
flash  from  the  car  window  of  Indian  Territory — 
the  prettiest  country  God  ever  made — the  thought 
would  strike  me  that  I'd  never  again  see  those  little 
green  hills  and  chestnut  groves  and  clear  streams. 
Now  and  then,  when  I'd  see  a  pretty,  pleasant-look- 
ing woman,  I'd  remember  with  a  jerk  of  my  heart 
that  I  could  never  talk  to  a  woman  again,  and  the 
world  would  go  black  before  my  eyes.  These  were 
only  spasms.  Most  of  the  way  I  talked  and  joked 
with  my  guards — and  I  wasn't  acting,  either. 

161 


CHAPTER    VIII 

CONVICT    31539 

IN  a  daze  I  made  the  passage  from  the  Columbus 
station  to  the  building  of  the  great  stone 
walls.  In  a  daze  I  saw  two  uniformed  men 
step  forward  and  begin  searching  my  clothes.  The 
indignity  seemed  to  wake  me,  I  turned  and  said  a 
word  to  the  guard  at  my  right.  He  made  no  an- 
swer, only  went  on  exploring  my  pockets.  I  spoke 
to  the  guard  at  my  left ;  he  did  not  even  seem  to 
hear  me.  When  they  had  finished  one  of  them  said 
a  single  word : 

"Come!" 

I  stepped  forward  between  them  to  the  big  door 
which  separates  the  warden's  office  from  the  main 
prison.  Another  silent  guard  unlocked  it.  If  he 
had  been  letting  water  through  a  sluice  box,  he 
would  have  noticed  it  more  than  he  noticed  me.  We 
stepped  through;  the  gate  closed  behind  me  with 
a  peculiar,  reverberating  clang. 

And  there  my  imagination  woke  at  last.  I  can 
162 


CONVICT    31539 

feel  yet  the  shock  which  ran  through  my  whole  body, 
the  tightening  of  my  scalp,  the  stiffening  of  my 
backbone.  That  gate  had  closed  on  me  forever  and 
ever.  While  life  remained  I  should  not  pass  that 
threshold  again.  The  thing  which  they  would 
carry  out,  after  twenty,  thirty,  forty  years,  would 
not  be  Al  Jennings,  but  only  his  shell.  Commu- 
tations, pardons,  processes  of  law — I  forgot  them 
aU. 

The  silent,  automatic  guard  guided  me  down  a 
dark  corridor,  with  a  blank,  whitewashed  wall  to  the 
left  and  tier  upon  tier  of  uniform,  miserabl}'  small 
cells  to  the  right.  There  came  to  me  a  sickening 
odor — the  prison  smell,  the  smell  of  decaying  souls. 
Another  silent,  automatic  guard  opened  a  little 
door.  We  were  facing  a  low  building  with  two 
barred  windows.  These  windows  were  a  nightmare 
of  pale,  drawn  faces ;  and  there  came  to  me  a  chat- 
tering, broken  with  screams.  One  man,  as  we  walked 
on,  thrust  his  arms  between  the  bars.  His  hands 
were  not  clenched,  as  you  would  have  expected ;  they 
hung  limp.  I  looked  at  the  guard,  but  I  held  back 
my  question.  However,  after  a  minute  he  began 
talking  as  though  to  the  air. 

"Nut  house,"  he  said  in  a  low  monotone.  "After 
they're  in  here  a  few  years  men-  go  crazy,  and  we 
have  to  confine  them  there."     That  comment,  as  I 

163 


BEATING    BACK 

learned  later,  was  a  special  mercy,  and  against  the 
rules. 

Before  that  shock  passed  we  had  entered  a  long 
room  with  rows  of  tables  which  looked  like  rough 
writing  desks. 

"Sit  down !"  said  the  guard.  Another  automaton 
appeared  from  the  doorway.  He  was  carrying  a  pie 
pan  full  of  molasses,  a  square  piece  of  reasonably 
white  bread,  and  a  can  of  water.  I  glanced  at  this 
food ;  then  I  folded  my  arms  and  sat  looking  straight 
ahead.     Several  minutes  passed. 

"Go  on  and  eat,"  said  the  guard  finally,  and  still 
in  that  monotone  which  seemed  to  fray  every  nerve 
I  had,  "I  can't  stay  here  all  day." 

"I  don't  want  anything,"  I  said. 

"Come !"  said  he. 

We  moved  across  the  deserted  prison  campus, 
through  another  steel  door.  Now  I  was  facing  three 
crude  barber's  chairs,  made  of  common  boards.  The 
guard  motioned;  I  sat  down.  The  barber  stepped 
forward  as  though  some  one  had  pulled  a  lever  and 
started  him  going.  In  silence  he  shaved  my  face  and 
head.  It  was  the  silence  which  was  killing  me.  I 
felt  that  I  must  have  some  human  response,  I  didn't 
care  what,  or  I  should  burst  inside  and  die. 

As  we  started  back  I  remembered  that  I  had  left 
my  hat.    I  turned  and  faced  a  man  in  a  gray  suit — 

164 


CONVICT    31539 

a  trusty,  as  I  learned  afterward.  He  was  wearing 
my  hat,  and  he  stood  holding  out  to  me  a  little  brown 
slip  of  a  thing  which  looked  not  unlike  a  clown's 
cap.     Full  to  overflowing,  I  ran  over. 

"Give  me  my  hat !"  I  demanded. 

"You've  got  no  damn  use  for  it !"  he  said. 

I  exploded  into  action.  AVith  one  hand  I  grabbed 
the  hat,  and  with  the  other  his  hair.  It  brought  the 
human  response.  The  barbers — all  convicts — 
laughed.  But  my  guard  never  cracked  a  smile.  He 
laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  said : 

"You're  going  to  have  a  hard  time  here — too 
much  temper.     Come  on!" 

Next  we  were  in  the  state  shop.  Men  all  alike  in 
appearance  and  costume  sat  making  and  mending 
clothes.  Two  of  them  rose  as  we  entered.  As  si- 
lently and  automatically  as  the  rest,  they  stripped 
me  and  dressed  me  in  an  ill-fitting  gray  suit,  with  a 
blue  stripe,  like  that  of  a  cadet  uniform,  down  the 
trouser  seam.  I  am  only  five  feet  four  in  height,  and 
those  clothes  were  large  enough  for  a  broad-shoul- 
dered six-footer.  I  had  to  roll  up  the  sleeves  and 
the  trousers  legs  to  use  my  hands  and  feet.  They 
took  away  a  good  pair  of  shoes,  and  gave  me  bro- 
gans  with  copper  rivets  in  the  sides.  These  were 
number  sevens — and  my  size  was  four.  Only  by 
shuffling  as  I  walked  could  I  keep  my  feet  in  them. 

165 


BEATING    BACK 

The  cap,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  size  too  small.  I 
didn't  know  until  afterward  what  this  meant.  Cow- 
boy fashion,  I  was  particular  about  my  clothes.  I 
had  arrived  too  well  dressed,  and  they  hung  these 
clothes  on  me  to  humiliate  me.  They  succeeded 
most  admirably. 

We  went  to  the  bath  house,  where  about  a  pint  of 
water  was  sprinkled  over  me — the  usual  prison  bath 
except  when  they  send  a  man  to  the  cellar  for  pun- 
ishment. Then  he  gets  too  much.  Next  it  was  the 
transfer  office.  A  clerk  at  a  little  window  bade  me 
look  up  while  he  read  in  a  monotone  the  book 
of  rules.  I  didn't  hear  a  word  until  he  ended 
briefly : 

"Number  31539."  That  was  my  number.  I  had 
lost  my  name. 

We  passed  on  to  the  Idle  House,  where  men  are 
held  temporarily  until  assigned  to  a  cell  and  a  com- 
pany. There  the  guard  who  had  been  with  me  since 
I  entered  turned  without  a  word  and  left  me.  At 
the  end  of  the  room  was  a  raised  platform,  where  an- 
other guard  sat  in  a  kind  of  high-chair. 

"Sit  down !"  he  said.  After  which  he  paid  me  no 
attention.  Here  was  I,  a  new  arrival — I  expected  at 
least  some  curiosity.  Were  they  treating  me  like 
a  log  of  wood  to  humiliate  me,  I  wondered? 

After  a  few  minutes  of  absolute  quiet,  I  began  to 
166 


CONVICT    31539 

look  around.  The  room  was  dingy  and  cobwcbbcd. 
It  seemed  as  though  the  windows  had  never  been 
washed.  In  the  shadows  I  made  out  three  or  four 
companions  sitting  on  the  pine  benches  at  my  right. 
My  eyes  became  glued,  with  the  fascination  of  dis- 
gust, to  one  of  them.  He  had  a  long  nose  like  the 
beak  of  a  bird,  and  a  deep-set  eye  of  an  uncertain 
greenish  yellow.  His  hair  had  grown  out;  on  his 
face  was  a  stubble  of  beard  which  reminded  one  of 
a  wheat  field  newly  mown.  He  was  chewing  tobacco, 
and  the  amber  fluid  was  running  from  the  corners 
of  his  mouth. 

He  held  in  his  fingers  something  which  I  saw  in 
time  was  a  feather.  He  was  stripping  it  into  little 
pieces.  He  would  tear  off  a  filament,  blow  it  into  the 
air,  and  keep  on  blowing  until  it  got  beyond  range  of 
his  breath.  All  the  time  he  would  follow  its  course 
with  his  fixed,  dead,  incurious  eyes.  And  I  won- 
dered how  long  it  would  be  until  I,  too,  should  lose 
my  grip  and  go  to  stripping  feathers. 

Then  a  little  monotonous  buzzing  caught  my  at- 
tention. I  looked  and  saw  that  a  blue-bottle  fly  had 
caught  in  a  cobweb  at  the  window.  He  was  trying 
to  release  himself.  For  a  space  like  a  century  he 
buzzed  and  fought.  I  felt  that  I  must  release  him. 
I  turned  to  the  guard.  He  had  fallen  asleep  in  his 
chair,  his  head  on  his  breast.    All  day  I  watched  that 

167 


BEATING    BACK 

fly  struggling  for  his  liberty,  and  I  thought  that  he 
had  a  better  chance  than  I. 

There  was  a  dank  odor  in  the  air — a  mustiness, 
very  sickening  to  the  senses.  I  get  that  smell  some- 
times from  old  cellars,  and  it  brings  back  to  me  that 
day  when  I  sank  into  the  very  depths.  The  half-wit 
in  the  corner — the  impersonal,  sleepy  guard — the 
trapped  fly — the  odor — they  did  their  work  in  my 
soul.  Never  until  then  had  I  thought  of  suicide. 
But  if  I  had  possessed  the  instrument,  I  should 
have  killed  myself  that  afternoon. 

That  was  the  bottom  of  the  curve.  I  was  to  learn 
later  that  a  prison  is,  after  all,  a  little  world,  with 
its  own  peculiar  ambitions,  intrigues,  worries,  hopes, 
and  pleasures.  But  then  I  thought  of  it  as  a  thing 
which  makes  machines  out  of  men.  And  that  is  a 
hell — to  turn  a  living,  growing  thing  into  a  machine. 

The  whistle  blew;  the  guard  started  awake, 
formed  us  into  line,  and  marched  us  outside.  A 
company  of  convicts  came  up,  halted,  took  us  in, 
and  went  on  to  the  dining-room.  There  a  waiter 
slammed  down  the  same  ration  of  molasses,  bread, 
and  water.  Still  I  couldn't  eat,  although  I  tried.  A 
negro  sat  at  my  right.  By  a  gesture,  he  indicated 
that  he  wanted  my  food.  I  nodded.  He  picked  the 
flies  out  of  the  molasses,  and  my  rations  vanished 
like  a  flash.    Then  a  guard  said : 

168 


CONVICT    31539 

"Come!" 

He  led  me  to  a  cell  in  the  third  tier  of  the  A  and 
B  block,  locked  me  in,  and  ordered  me  to  put  two 
fingers  of  one  hand  through  the  bars  until  he  re- 
turned for  the  night's  count.  I  fumbled  in  the  dark- 
ness to  survey  my  surroundings.  I  felt  a  little 
swinging  iron  bed,  drawn  up  by  chains  against  the 
wall,  a  shelf  with  a  Bible,  a  tin  pail  fastened  to  the 
door  by  a  hook.  I  did  not  understand  its  purpose 
until  a  convict  came  down  the  range  and  filled  it 
with  water. 

"Don't  I  get  a  light.'*"  I  asked.  He  made  no  re- 
sponse, but  turned  and  went  on.  Presently  I  heard 
a  voice  down  the  ranges,  and  recognized  the  call  of 
a  newsboy.  Though  I  didn't  know  it  then,  certain 
convicts  earned  a  little  money  of  their  own  for  over- 
time, and  they  were  allowed  to  spend  it  for  papers. 
As  he  came  nearer  I  heard  him  call  the  name : 

"Al  Jennings !"  I  wondered,  and  I  crowded  close 
to  the  cell  door.  He  came  into  sight  presently — a 
convict  with  a  bundle  of  papers  under  his  left  arm. 
I  saw  him  glance  deliberately  up  and  down  the  range 
before  he  stepped  into  the  alcove  in  front  of  my 
grating  and  began  to  talk  in  a  low  voice. 

"I've  sold  all  my  papers,  except  this  one,  on  ac- 
count of  you,"  he  said. 

"I  have  no  money,"  said  I. 
169 


BEATING    BACK 

"That's  all  right.  Tliis  is  on  me,"  he  replied. 
And  he  passed  it  between  the  bars.  I  told  him  that 
I  needed  a  hght.  He  replied  that  there  was  a  gas 
jet,  which  I  might  use  until  nine  o'clock,  and  he 
handed  me  a  match. 

"But  don't  tell  anybody  I  talked  to  you,"  he  said, 
"or  I'll  lose  this  job.  They've  got  you  in  a  bum 
cell,  but  a  fellow  like  you  will  soon  be  getting  the 
gravy  of  this  institution."  I  Ht  the  gas  and  looked 
over  the  paper — the  Columbus  Press-Post.  The 
front  page  opened  with  three  columns  about  me  and 
my  arrival  at  the  prison !  All  the  time  when  the  im- 
personality of  the  place  had  been  eating  into  my 
soul,  I  had  been  a  sensation.  I  didn't  know  as  yet 
the  prison  language,  which  expresses  whole  para- 
graphs by  the  turn  of  an  eyelash. 

I  slept  little  that  night.  I've  been  asked  since  if 
I  felt  any  remorse,  and  I'm  forced  to  answer  that  I 
didn't.  I  was  not  yet  broken.  But  I  did  go  down 
to  the  very  depths  of  despair. 

I  dropped  off  in  time.  A  reverberating  gong 
awoke  me.  I  didn't  realize  where  I  was  until  I  saw 
the  bucket  hanging  on  the  grated  window.  And  as 
I  struggled  out  of  sleep  I  found  that  the  sickening 
sense  of  despair  had  left  me ;  I  felt  that  I  was  going 
somehow  to  get  out  of  that  prison.  When  I  fell  into 
line  for  breakfast  I  began  to  read  the  prison  lan- 

170 


CONVICT    31539 

guage.  Here  and  there  men  would  shift  their  eyes 
toward  me  and  shift  them  instantly  back  to  atten- 
tion. I  knew  by  instinct  that  they  were  looking  at 
the  fellow  of  whom  they'd  been  reading  in  the 
papers.  Some  of  them  have  told  me  since  that  they 
didn't  believe  it  was  I — in  that  make-up.  I  went 
back  to  the  Idle  House.  The  half-wit  had  gone  to 
the  "feather  foundry,"  where  they  worked  the  weak- 
minded  men  not  yet  bad  enough  for  the  "nut  house." 
The  fly  had  escaped  from  the  spider  web.  Yes,  de- 
cidedly, things  were  better ;  this  world  held  some 
hope  and  interest. 

As  I  waited,  a  well-dressed  man  came  through  the 
door.    The  guard  rose  and  saluted. 

"I  want  31539,"  he  said. 

"Number  31539,  stand  up !"  said  the  guard. 

I  sat  there — I  hadn't  thought  of  my  number  since 
they  hung  it  on  me.  The  stranger  looked  over  our 
line.     As  no  one  rose,  he  added: 

"A  man  named  Jennings." 

I  stood  up  in  a  hurry.  The  gentleman  looked  at 
me  as  though  I  were  really  a  human  being.  "I  have 
an  order  from  the  deputy  for  you,"  he  said.  "My 
name  is  Laney,  and  I'm  superintendent  of  transfers. 
We've  had  some  good  letters,  speaking  highly  of 
you.  When  I  learned  you'd  arrived,  I  asked  the 
warden  for  you."     So  we  talked  freely  and  pleas- 

171 


BEATING    BACK 

antly  as  we  walked  across  to  the  deputy's  office,  a 
brick  building  in  the  middle  of  the  prison  campus 
beside  the  chapel.  Just  before  entering  the  door, 
Mr.  Laney  said: 

"Be  guarded  in  your  conduct  before  the  deputy. 
He  is  a  pretty  good  fellow,  but  rough,  and  he  is  the 
boss  around  here.  Even  I  have  to  take  orders  from 
him." 

A  tall,  broad-faced,  big-eyed  man  with  huge  shoul- 
ders sat  in  a  swivel  chair.  He  turned  as  we  en- 
tered, and  looked  me  over.  It  was  Deputy  Bradford 
Dawson,  the  strong  man  and  the  character  of  that 
prison.  In  a  deep  but  quiet  and  drawHng  voice  he 
asked : 

"Your  name  is  Jennings?" 
"Yes,  sir,"  I  said. 
"You're  a  lawyer,  ain't  you.^"' 
"No,  sir.     I  used  to  be." 

"Well,"  said  the  deputy,  almost  purring,  his  voice 
grew  so  quiet,  "you  won't  get  much  practice  in 
here.  The  warden  has  turned  you  over  to  Mr. 
Laney.  I  wouldn't  have  done  that — don't  believe  in 
it.  I  think  a  fellow  ought  to  get  used  to  this  place 
before  he's  handed  any  favors.  You'll  have  one  of 
the  nicest  places  in  this  institution — a  clerk.  You've 
got  a  long  time  to  stay  in  here — if  your  health  is 
good.     Still,  seven  or  eight  years  on  the  average  lets 

172 


CONVICT    31539 

out  a  man  who  has  a  life  term.  They  get  pardoned 
somehow.  But  not  always.  Behave  yourself.  Obey 
the  rules."  He  stopped.  I  started  to  turn  away, 
when  he  added,  "And  don't  trust  anybody.  This  is 
a  prison.  It's  full  of  the  worst  men  in  the  world. 
That's  all." 

As  we  walked  away,  Mr.  Laney  was  laughing. 
"He  spoke  to  you  more  kindly  than  I  ever  heard 
him,"  he  said. 

So  I  was  jumped  at  once  into  the  first  class  and 
made  a  transfer  clerk.  The  transfer  office  stood, 
'then,  at  the  end  of  the  G  and  H  block.  Built  up  four 
or  five  steps  higher  than  the  main  floor,  it  had  two 
windows,  heavily  barred,  of  course,  and  a  closet 
which  entered  a  tower.  From  the  windows  you  could 
look  across  to  liberty — the  river.  Spring  Street,  the 
steward's  office  just  across  the  street.  Mr.  Laney 
led  me  in.  A  young  man  in  the  gray  uniform  of  a 
first-class  clerk  sat  working  at  a  set  of  books. 

"He'll  teach  you  your  duties,"  said  Mr.  Laney. 
"He's  going  out." 

He  was  a  life-termer,  for  all  his  youth,  that  fellow 
in  the  gray  uniform;  he  had  been  in  prison  almost 
continuously  since  he  was  fourteen.  As  he  began  to 
instruct  me  in  my  duties,  he  talked  in  a  monotone 
from  one  corner  of  his  mouth.  I  took  it  then  for  a 
little  congenital  peculiarity.     Really,  it  was  a  habit 

173 


BEATING    BACK 

he  had  formed  while  in  the  shops.  Conversation  was 
forbidden  to  all  but  the  first-class  convicts.  When 
they  want  to  talk  they  look  past  the  hearer  to  a 
distant  object,  and  speak  from  the  corner  of  the 
mouth  nearest  him.  You  could  watch  the  other  side 
of  their  faces  all  day  and  never  see  a  movement.  He 
had  learned  the  habit  so  young  that  he  couldn't 
break  it  even  in  the  transfer  office,  where  he  had  no 
rule  of  silence. 

At  intervals  we  talked  other  things  besides  busi- 
ness. I  told  him  that  he  was  lucky  to  get  out;  I 
didn't  dare  expect  as  much.     He  said: 

"Neither  did  I.  Those  things  come  about  some- 
how. But  I  don't  know  whether  I'll  be  in  any  bet- 
ter shape.  I  got  one  jolt  when  I  was  a  boy.  After 
I  was  released  nobody  would  give  me  work.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  go  back  to  the  graft.  I 
croaked  a  fellow  in  a  job,  and  got  a  life  bit.  I  have 
no  trade,  and  as  soon  as  I  hit  the  street  the  bulls 
will  be  after  me  again.  I'll  be  back — here  or  some- 
where else — before  long."  A  few  days  later  I 
bade  him  good-bye.  I've  never  heard  from  him 
since. 

So  I  settled  down  as  transfer  clerk.  While  I 
wasn't  a  trusty  yet,  I  had  most  of  a  trusty's  privi- 
leges. I  was  free,  after  supper  and  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, to  go  to  the  office  instead  of  my  cell.    That's 

174 


CONVICT    31539 

a  privilege  which  no  one  who  hasn't  been  a  convict 
can  appreciate.  My  duties  weren't  especially  hard. 
Transfer  clerk  means  what  the  term  implies.  I  kept 
track  of  the  entries  and  departures  of  the  shifts 
from  one  department  or  one  gang  to  another.  Every 
night,  when  the  men  were  locked  in  their  cells,  a 
guard  counted  them.  According  to  routine,  when 
there  were  two  men  in  the  same  cell,  he'd  make  one 
thrust  out  one  finger  of  his  right  hand,  and  the 
other  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  to  make  sure 
that  there  had  been  no  escape.  My  books  and  slips 
must  tally  with  his  count,  or  I  had  to  reckon  with 
the  deputy.  I  ate  in  a  separate  dining-room — called 
"Jericho"  in  prison  slang — with  the  other  first-class 
clerks.  Besides,  men  in  the  shops  were  given,  for 
special  services  or  extra  good  conduct,  weekly  tick- 
ets to  Jericho  now  and  then.  We  were  allowed 
knives  and  forks.  The  food  was  plain  but  whole- 
some. Best  of  all,  we  could  talk.  They  gave  me 
new  quarters  on  "Bankers'  Row."  These  were  the 
largest,  airiest  cells  in  the  place ;  and  here  were  con- 
fined men  of  means,  like  cashiers,  directors,  and  the 
like,  who  had  gone  up  for  embezzlement  or  juggling 
funds.  Of  course,  they  had  money;  and,  of  course, 
they  used  it.  Hence  their  special  privileges.  This 
prison,  as  I  learned  soon  afterward,  was  run  on  a 
strict  political  system,   and   hadn't  escaped   graft. 

175 


BEATING    BACK 

The  bankers  were  allowed  to  decorate  their  cells  and 
to  buj'  special  food. 

Now  all  this  time,  with  the  picking  and  stealing  in 
certain  departments,  the  food  of  the  regular  dining- 
room  at  the  Ohio  State  Penitentiary  grew  worse  and 
worse.      I  hadn't  learned  enough  about  prisons   to 
recognize  the  signs  of  revolution.     I  did  notice,  now 
and  then,   certain  fluttering  disorders  in  the  lines, 
and  a  difficulty  in  enforcing  discipline.      The   con- 
victs were  getting  ripe  for  a  break.     It  was  not  so 
much  the  bad  food  as  it  was  the  contrast  between  the 
general  lot   and   those  luxuries   on  Bankers'   Row. 
Then  we  began  to  whisper  the  truth  round  the  clerks' 
table  in  "Jericho."    An  explosion  impended ;  the  fuse 
had  begun  to  sizzle.    As  I,  in  my  plain  gray  uniform, 
with  my  white  shirt  and  collar,  passed  the  crowds  of 
third  and  fourth  class  prisoners  in  their  dirty,  dis- 
graceful stripes,  I  understood  perfectly  their  point  of 
view.  Too  much  favoritism  had  been  allowed  men  with 
money,  like  the  bankers,  or  with  influence,  like  me. 
The    riot    broke    suddenly.      I   was    crossing    the 
campus  to  our  Jericho  dining-room,  when  from  the 
main  dining-room  I  heard  a  noise  like  the  roar  of  a 
hundred  tigers — a  strange,  inhuman,  ghastly   com- 
bination of  bellow  and  wail.     I've  since  heard  stage 
mobs  try  to  imitate  that  sound ;  and  I  always  laugh, 
it  seems  so  cold   and   feeble.      The   real  thing  sent 

176 


CONVICT    31539 

shivers  down  every  nerve.  The  door  of  the  office 
opened,  and  Deputy  Bradford  Dawson  came  run- 
ning out,  as  pale  as  a  sheet.  A  guard  came  up  from 
the  other  direction,  carrying  a  gun. 

"My  God,  man,"  yelled  Dawson,  "put  that  thing 
down!"  Unarmed,  he  ran  toward  the  dining-room, 
and  I  ran  after  him,  drawn  by  curiosity.  The  four- 
teen hundred  prisoners  were  on  their  feet,  throwing 
plates  and  bowls,  smashing  tables  with  their  feet, 
running  about  aimlessly.  As  I  entered,  a  guard 
plunged  head  first  through  an  open  window. 

Then  followed  the  finest  exhibition  I  ever  saw  of 
character  and  personality.  Dawson  shot  his  big 
form  to  the  platform  at  one  end  of  the  dining-room, 
and  shouted: 

"Men !  Men !"  His  voice  wasn't  quiet  any  more ; 
it  came  out  with  its  full  force.  The  riot  went  on  for 
a  second,  as  though  struggling  for  its  life,  and  died 
out.  Some  of  the  men  stood  still,  their  arms  stretched 
back — frozen  in  the  act  of  throwing  a  plate. 

"Men,"  said  Dawson,  "sit  down!  I'll  right  your 
wrongs !  Nobody  will  be  punished  for  this.  Sit 
down  and  go  on  with  dinner!"  They  dropped  back 
into  their  places  as  though  drawn  by  strings.  The 
men  who  had  been  running  about  found  their  seats. 
In  less  than  a  minute  everything  had  stopped. 

The  fear  of  a  break  always  hung  over  the  prison 
177 


BEATING    BACK 

authorities.  Once  let  those  1,700  tough,  desperate 
men  move  together,  and  no  body  of  guards  could 
have  held  them.  The  safety  of  a  prison  depends  on 
keeping  the  men  from  concerted  action.  This  time 
the}'  nearly  developed  that  uniform  mob  spirit.  The 
authorities  took  no  more  chances.  Next  day  a  squad 
went  through  Bankers'  Row,  pulling  down  the  pic- 
tures and  ornaments.  We  clerks  in  Jericho  lost 
many  of  our  privileges,  and  for  a  little  while  certain 
gentlemanly  grafters  had  poor  pickings,  while  the 
food  in  the  main  dining-room  became  almost  pala- 
table. 

Some  of  my  acquaintances  in  the  transfer  office 
appealed  to  me,  and  some  did  not.  I  shall  always 
remember  one  first-class  man  whose  position  gave 
him  the  run  of  my  office.  From  his  hatchet-faced 
appearance  I  called  him  in  my  own  mind  "the  fish- 
hawk."  Externally  he  was  smooth,  plausible,  and 
agreeable.  He  had  been  looking  for  the  job  of 
transfer  clerk,  I  learned;  and  he  probably  resented 
my  quick  promotion.  The  porter  round  the  office, 
a  life-termer  charged  with  murder,  was  illiterate  but 
dapper  in  dress  and  with  good  manners.  These  men, 
in  their  diflFerent  ways,  caused  me  great  trouble. 

First  it  was  the  turn  of  the  fish-hawk.  In  the 
routine  of  his  job  he  sometimes  had  access  to  the 
prisoners'  effects.     When  this  happened  he  would 

178 


CONVICT    31539 

invariably  pilfer  some  little  tool  or  trinket.  It  made 
no  difference  to  him  whether  he  could  use  the  article 
or  not.  He'd  show  his  plunder  to  me  before  he  hid 
it  in  the  transfer  office.  I  didn't  like  to  tell  the  war- 
den— that  would  have  been  "snitching,"  which  is  the 
blackest  sin  among  convicts.  Nevertheless,  these 
stolen  articles  put  us  all  in  danger ;  and  one  day 
I  told  him  that  if  he  brought  in  any  more  plunder 
I'd  report  to  the  warden.  He  took  it  hard ;  one 
word  led  to  another ;  and  suddenly  my  red  temper 
exploded.  I  jumped  at  him.  I  had  in  my  hand  a 
little,  sharp  desk-knife.  I  went  straight  at  his  neck 
— hesitated,  and  quit.  I  had  meant  to  cut  his 
throat.  I  think  it  was  his  very  immobility — for  he 
was  paralyzed  with  fear — which  restrained  me. 

Trouble  like  that  is  severely  punished  in  the 
prison.  But  the  fish-hawk  showed  no  disposition 
to  report  me.  In  fact,  he  became  friendly,  obedient 
and  humble,  all  of  which  put  me  on  my  guard. 

I  understood  his  meekness  when  1,500  cigars 
which  had  mysteriously  disappeared  from  the  cigar 
shop  were  found  by  the  patrol  guard  in  the  tower 
of  my  office.  I  was  summoned  to  appear  before 
the  deputy.  I  told  him,  truthfully,  that  I  knew 
nothing  of  the  matter. 

"Have  you  ever  smoked  any  cigars  in  there.?" 
he  asked. 

179 


BEATING    BACK 

"Yes,  sir,"   I  said. 

"Where  did  you  get  them?"  he  asked. 

"Given  me  by  the  prisoners,"  I  replied.  The 
transfer  clerk  is  in  a  position  to  do  small  favors. 
In  return  a  cigarmakcr  would  smuggle  me  out  a 
cigar,  now  and  then,  in  his  shoe.  The  two  ends 
would  be  smashed  flat  from  the  heel  and  ball  of  his 
foot,  and  so  we   called  them  "fan-tails." 

"Don't  you  know  that's  a  violation  of  the  rules?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You'd  better  not  do  that  any  more.  Who  put 
those  cigars  in  the  tower?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Deputy  Bradford  Dawson  put  me  through  a  se- 
vere cross-questioning  before  he  told  me  the  news. 
The  porter  had  "snitched."  The  fish-hawk  had 
stolen  and  concealed  those  cigars,  with  the  idea  of 
laying  the  theft  on  me  and  getting  me  transferred. 
He'd  confided  the  plot  to  the  porter.  That  was  his 
great  mistake. 

"I've  transferred  him  to  the  glove  shop,"  said  the 
deputy.     "He  can  stay  there  for  a  while.     He's  been 

doing  favors  for  (he  named  a  high  official), 

and  any  man  who  does  that  can  get  what  he  wants 
in  this  penitentiary." 

Dawson  was  severe,  applying  strictly  the  barbar- 
180 


"I  went  straight  at  his  neck' 


CONVICT    31539 

ous  rules  of  the  Ohio  State  Penitentiary.  But  he 
was  also  just — the  memory  of  his  justice  helped  save 
him  during  the  riot  in  the  dining-room.  Nearly 
every  other  sub-official  was  accepting  graft  in  one 
form  or  another.  Dawson  never  took  a  cent — I  hap- 
pen to  know  because  later  I  had  access  to  the  books. 
He  hated  pull  and  personal  influence.  A  few  days 
after  that,  I  was  in  the  guard-room  when  they 
brought  up  a  new  prisoner — a  well-dressed,  plaus- 
ible Italian  pickpocket.  Dawson  had  no  guard  avail- 
able at  the  moment,  and  he  asked  me  to  walk  with 
him  while  he  convoyed  the  prisoner  across  the  yard. 
The  Italian  talked  a  steady  stream,  explaining  his 
innocence,  and  advertising  his  talents.  The  deputy 
seemed  not  to  hear  him  until  he  said : 

"Perhaps  you  don't  understand  that  I  speak  nine 
languages." 

"You  do,  do  you.'"'  said  the  deputy.    "Well,  you'll 

only  talk  one  language  here,  and  little  of 

that!" 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE    DEPTHS 

FROM  February  to  August,  1899,  I  worked 
in  the  transfer  office,  gradually  extending 
my  acquaintance,  in  the  slow,  furtive  prison 
way,  among  both  prisoners  and  guards.  As  the 
newsman  prophesied,  I  had  "got  the  gravy"  of 
the  institution.  My  work  was  fairly  heavy  and 
exacting,  but  not  difficult  after  I  mastered  the  rou- 
tine; and  it  kept  my  mind  occupied.  I  found  time 
for  much  reading.  I  wore  a  gray  suit  with  a  collar 
and  tie;  notliing  except  the  cadet  stripe  down  the 
trouser  leg  would  mark  me  as  a  prisoner.  I  ate  in 
Jericho,  where  the  food  was  pretty  good;  I  had  the 
blessing  of  conversation  at  meals.  I  began  to  see  a 
little  of  Warden  Coffin,  and  I  think  he  liked  me.  As 
for  Deputy  Dawson,  he  showed  me  certain  signs  of 
friendship  in  his  queer,  gruff  way. 

However,  no  prisoner  ever  lived  contented  in  his 
prison.  It  is  against  human  nature  to  endure  volun- 
tary restraint.     To  get  away  is  the  nightly  dream, 

182 


THE    DEPTHS 

the  daily  ambition,  of  the  convict.  What  greed,  po- 
sition, fame,  or  love  of  woman  represents  to  a  free 
man,  escape  represents  to  a  prisoner.  And  I  had 
certain  special  reasons  driving  me  to  escape  at  this 
period.  Bud,  Bill  and  my  brother  Frank  still  lay 
in  jail  at  Ardmore,  charged  with  the  Rock  Island 
robbery.  Because  they  were  unknown  to  the  people 
of  El  Reno,  it  was  harder  to  convict  them  than  me; 
yet  I  knew  that  the  authorities  would  get  them 
somehow.  Only  one  penalty  stood  on  the  statute 
books  against  that  charge — life. 

Under  the  windows  of  my  office  ran  the  Sciota 
River.  It  empties  into  the  Ohio,  and  the  Ohio  into 
the  Mississippi.  Let  me  get  through  those  barred 
windows,  and  somehow  I  might  drift  down  the  river 
to  Arkansas,  from  which  I  could  go  overland  into 
Indian  Territory.  Once  there — so  ran  my  dream — 
I  would  gather  the  remnants  of  my  outlaw  friends 
for  a  raid  on  the  Ardmore  jail.  I  would  release 
my  comrades,  or  die  fighting,  as  I  had  always  ex- 
pected I  should  die.  The  plan  became  an  obsession. 
When  I  was  alone  in  the  transfer  office  I'd  stand 
with  my  hands  against  the  bars  watching  the  drift- 
wood on  the  Sciota.  It  was  going  from  the  Sciota 
to  the  Ohio,  from  the  Ohio  to  the  Mississippi — why 
not  a  piece  of  human  driftwood.''  I  planned  how  I 
would  slip  from  the  window,  drop  to  the  wall  under 

183 


BEATING    BACK 

the  guard  tower,  and  make  a  run  for  the  river,  tak- 
ing the  chances  that  the  guard  would  miss  me  in  his 
excitement^ — if  he  ever  saw  me.  I  thought  about  a 
change  of  clothes,  and  even  planned  to  hide  an  out- 
fit in  the  state  shop.  All  that  restrained  me  was  a 
few  steel  bars. 

The  routine  threw  me  in  with  one  of  the  guards. 
He  liked  me,  I  think — I  did  all  I  could  to  make  him. 
During  the  leisure  and  freedom  of  my  evenings  we 
would  sit  in  my  office,  while  I  told  him  stories  of  the 
long  riders  and  the  cow  country.  Without  seem- 
ing to  plead  my  own  cause,  I  let  him  know  how  I  had 
become  an  outlaw.  At  last  he  began  to  express  sym- 
pathy for  me,  and  I  grew  bold  to  approach  my  point. 
I  remarked,  casually,  that  a  man  in  the  transfer 
office  might  easily  escape  by  sawing  those  bars.  He 
made  no  response — simply  turned  and  left  me. 
There  I  let  the  matter  rest  for  a  time. 

When  again  we  talked  alone  he  found  me  in  one 
of  my  despondent  moods.  Something,  I've  now  for- 
gotten what,  had  happened  to  impress  my  situation 
upon  me.    He  noticed  it,  and  he  asked : 

"What's  troubling  you.''  You  don't  seem  to  be 
feeling  well." 

Then  I  gave  in,  and  unbosomed  myself.  I  wasn't 
acting  now;  I  was  sincere.  I  told  him  all  about 
Frank — how  I  had  got  him  into  the  trouble,  how  he 

184 


THE    DEPTHS 

hated  the  whole  business,  how  he  stood  in  danger  of 
a  hfe  sentence.  And  I  hinted  at  a  plan  to  release 
him  if  I  could  only  escape. 

The  guard  sat  silent  for  a  time.  Presently  we 
saw  some  men  coming  along  the  hall.     He  said: 

"I  will  see  you  again,"  and  walked  away  without 
another  word. 

Nearly  a  week  later  he  came  into  my  office  with 
his  wife  and  two  little  girls.  His  wife  brought  me  a 
pie.  When  they  were  leaving  he  turned  back  to  me 
as  though  on  a  sudden  impulse,  and  slipped  some- 
thing into  my  hand. 

"I've  brought  you  a  little  package,"  he  said.  "I 
hope  you'll  appreciate  it." 

I  put  the  bundle  in  my  pocket,  and  never  took  it 
out  until  I  was  alone  in  my  cell.  But  I  knew,  even 
before  I  opened  it,  what  it  contained. 

He  had  given  me  five  little  diamond-edged  saws ! 

With  hope  again  in  my  world,  I  set  to  work.  The 
window  bars  all  through  the  building  were  of  steel 
especially  composed  to  resist  saws.  These  diamond- 
edged  briers,  however,  would  cut  it — only  very 
slowly.  The  porter  was  the  only  man  regularly  in 
the  office  with  me.  At  certain  hours  in  the  morning 
he  was  away,  moving  and  transferring  beds.  Those 
periods  I  chose  for  the  work,  first  assuring  myself 
that  there  were  no  guards  in  the  neighborhood  and 

185 


BEATING    BACK 

no  watchers  at  the  windows  across  the  street.  Then, 
too,  I  must  choose  always  a  time  when  some  external 
noise  killed  the  scraping  of  my  little  saws.  Every 
day,  when  I  had  finished,  I  filled  the  cuts  with  a  mix- 
ture of  soap  and  filings.  As  I  got  on  with  the  work 
I  figured  that  I  would  be  something  like  two  weeks 
altogether  in  cutting  through  two  places  in  two  bars, 
so  that  I  could  wiggle  through. 

All  this  time  my  friend  the  guard,  who  gave  me 
the  saws,  had  avoided  me.  One  day  when  I  was 
working  on  the  books  he  came  and  stood  be- 
side me. 

"I've  been  studying  this  thing  out,"  he  said 
abruptly,  "and  I  think  I've  made  a  mistake.  Not 
in  you,  Al,  for  I  know  you're  O.  K.,  but  if  a  rum- 
ble should  come  you  couldn't  explain  this." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "if  a  rumble  does  come,  you 
needn't  be  afraid.  I  never  betrayed  anyone  in  my 
life,  and  I  won't  you." 

He  replied:  "Al,  you  don't  realize  your  position. 
If  you're  caught  they'll  put  you  to  the  torture." 
He  looked  at  me  a  minute,  I  remember,  before  he 
added  in  a  serious  voice :  "Al,  they'll  kill  you  if  you 
don't  tell." 

I  said :    "Then  I'll  beat  the  prison,  won't  I.?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "You'll  tell.  No  man  alive  can 
undergo  that  punishment  and  not  squeal." 

186 


THE    DEPTHS 

"There's  nothing  on  earth  will  make  me  squeal,'* 
said  I. 

Then  he  approached  it  in  a  new  way,  and  sug- 
gested that,  if  I  did  confess,  he  would  get  ten  years 
for  helping  a  felon  to  escape.  "And  then  what  will 
become  of  my  wife  and  babies?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course,"  I  answered,  "I'd  quit  rather  than  see 
3'Our  wife  and  babies  suffer.  Old  man,  don't  be 
afraid  of  that." 

And  suddenly  he  changed. 

"Go  on !"  he  said.  "I  want  to  see  you  get  out  of 
this.  It's  a  hell.  I'm  going  to  quit  it  as  early  as  I 
can,  but  I'm  a  poor  man." 

I  worked  on ;  and  now,  I  suppose,  I  grew  less  cau- 
tious. For  one  day  I  heard  a  rustling  and  looked 
over  my  shoulders.  There  stood  the  porter.  He 
had  sneaked  up  on  rubber-soled  shoes. 

Thinking  like  lightning,  I  saw  that  my  only  way 
was  to  let  him  into  the  game. 

"I'm  working  a  hole  here,"  I  said. 

"I've  always  wanted  to  suggest  that,"  he  replied. 
"But  I  was  afraid  to.  Where  did  you  get  the 
saws .'"' 

"That's  none  of  your  business,"  said  I. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  he  said,  "but  I'd  sure  like  to  go 
along." 

"You're  in  it,"  said  I.  He  began  to  keep  watch 
187 


BEATING    BACK 

while  I  worked.  And  now  the  bars  were  hanging  by 
an  eighth  of  an  inch  of  steel.  That  evening,  unless 
something  happened  to  break  our  routine,  the  porter 
and  I  would  so  out. 

That  day  I  had  to  hold  myself  to  my  duties — I 
wanted  to  shout  and  run  in  my  excitement.  At  four 
o'clock  I  was  coming  from  the  G  and  H  block,  when 
a  convict  upon  the  range  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth 
and  said  so  that  I  alone  could  hear : 

"There's  something  doing  in  the  transfer  office. 
I  saw  the  main  and  second  finger  go  in  there  a  few 
minutes  ago."     He  meant  the  warden  and  deputy. 

My  blood  seemed  to  congeal  like  ice;  there  came 
over  me  the  sickening  feeling  which  a  man  has  when 
he's  caught  in  a  trap. 

But  I  didn't  hesitate;  I  couldn't.  I  managed  to 
walk  briskly  up  the  corridor  to  the  transfer  office. 
The  deputy  stood  watching  the  warden,  who  was 
scraping  the  soap  away  from  the  window  bars.  I 
never  knew  for  certain  who  gave  me  away,  but  im- 
mediately afterward  the  porter  became  the  war- 
den's runner. 

They  hadn't  noticed  me  enter.  It  seemed  an 
hour  before  the  deputy  looked  around. 

I  stepped  forward  at  once. 

"Warden,"  I  said,  "are  you  trying  to  find  where 
I  cut  those  bars.'^" 

188 


THE    DEPTHS 

"You  admit  it  then?"  said  Warden  Coffin. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  I.    "There  are  the  saws." 

The  warden's  face  grew  black  with  anger.  I'm 
not  exaggerating  when  I  say  that. 

"Deputy,  take  liim  to  the  cellar,"  he  said.  And 
so,  in  silence,  I  walked  to  the  deputy's  office.  I 
knew  what  to  expect.  I  understood  by  that  time 
the  blacker  side  of  the  Ohio  Penitentiary. 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  deputy.  "You  have  played 
hell.     A  man  with  a  life  sentence — never  did  a  lick 

of  work — put  in  one  of  the  best  offices What 

did  you  do  it  for.'"' 

"I  wanted  to  get  away — I  wanted  to  help  release 
the  other  boys  before  they  got  what  I've  got,"  I 
said.  And  I  told  him  all  about  that.  I  was  deter- 
mined to  be  frank,  except  on  one  point. 

The  deputy  settled  back,  looked  me  over,  and  be- 
gan in  his  quiet  voice : 

"I'm  awful  sorry  for  you.  I  kind  of  took  a  liking 
to  you.  One  tiling:  you've  never  lied  to  me.  Now 
I'm  going  to  advise  you  to  tell  me  where  you  got 
those  saws.     If  you'll  do  that,  I  won't  punish  you." 

"Deputy,  I  can't  tell,"  I  said. 

He  flared  up. 

"I  will  make  you  tell,"  he  said.  And  I  rather  for- 
got myself. 

"You'll  be  the  first  man  who  ever  did  that,"  said  I. 
189 


BEATING    BACK 

"Wells,"  said  the  deputy  to  his  assistant,  "take 
him  over  to  the  cellar.  I'm  going  to  find  where  those 
saws  came  from.    This  thing  has  got  to  stop." 

Wells,  the  assistant,  talked  to  me  as  we  went 
along.  He  was  sorry  for  me.  How  did  I  come  to 
do  it }    They'd  make  me  tell  who  gave  me  the  saws. 

"I  won't  do  that,"  said  I. 

"Then  God  help  you,"  said  he.  He  took  away 
my  coat  and  shoes,  and  clapped  me  into  a  solitary 
cell.  It  was  cold,  damp,  and  pitch-dark.  Feel- 
ing around,  I  discovered  a  pair  of  chains  with  hand- 
cuffs at  the  end,  hanging  high  on  the  wall;  a  water 
pail  hitched  to  the  door,  and  a  board,  raised  a  little 
at  one  end,  on  the  floor.  That  last  was  my  bed. 
There  I  staj-ed,  without  food  or  company,  until  nine 
o'clock  next  morning. 

Then  they  took  me  into  the  cellar  for  trial.  I 
found  there  two  or  three  convicts  suspected  of  com- 
plicity in  my  escape.  One  of  them  I  recognized.  A 
burglar,  doing  a  life  term  as  a  habitual  criminal,  he 
was  also  a  fine  mechanic  and  a  privileged  character 
in  the  shops.  Once,  long  before,  I  had  carelessly 
told  him — half  in  joke — that,  if  ever  I  got  a 
chance  to  escape,  I  would  let  him  in.  When  the 
chance  really  did  come  I  had  forgotten  aU  about 
him. 

Regret  piled  itself  on  the  rest  of  my  misery  when 
190 


THE    DEPTHS 

he  came  forward  and  "confessed"  that  he  had  given 
me  the  saws.  This  was  exaggerated  convict 
chivalry.  Believing  that  he  would  have  benefited  by 
my  attempt,  he  stood  by  his  pal ! 

I  heard  all  this  from  outside  the  little  office  in  the 
cellar — he  was  talking  loud  so  that  I  would  hear. 
It  didn't  convince  the  deputy  for  a  moment. 

"You're  lying,"  he  said.  "But  put  him  in  the 
fourth  class  and  set  him  to  work."  The  burglar 
passed  me  as  they  led  him  away,  and  he  gave  me  a 
look  which  meant:     "Follow  my  lead." 

Then  they  took  me  before  the  deputy. 

"How  do  you  like  your  new  home.?"  he  asked. 

"Not  very  well,  sir,"  said  I. 

"I  didn't  think  you  would.  Captain,  how  many 
men  have  died  in  solitary.'"' 

"A  good  many,"  said  the  captain.  He  spoke  the 
truth,  too ;  and  I  knew  it. 

"Jennings,"  said  the  deputy,  "make  a  clean  breast 
of  this.  A  fellow  has  told  us  he  gave  you  the  saws, 
but  he's  lying."    I  answered : 

"Deputy,  that's  an  awfully  good  boy.  He  did 
that  only  to  save  me.  I've  never  lied  to  you,  and  I 
won't  now." 

"Well,"  said  the  deputy,  "I  haven't  hurt  him 
much.  I've  put  him  in  the  stripes  where  he'll  lose 
his  tobacco  and  march  in  the  lockstep  for  a  while, 

191 


BEATING    BACK 

to  show  him  he  ain't  running  this  prison.  Let's  get 
down  to  business.  Are  you  going  to  tell  me  who 
gave  you  those  saws.'"' 

"No,  sir." 

"All  right,"  said  the  deputy.  "Take  him  out  and 
give  him  fifty-five." 

"Fifty-five"  meant  fifty-five  lashes.  They  fasten 
you  across  a  trough  by  steel  handcuffs  and  anklets, 
and  whip  you  full  strength  with  a  hickory-wood  pad- 
dle soaked  in  oil.  The  first  blow  of  the  paddle  raises 
a  blue  blister.  The  second  breaks  the  blister,  and 
the  blood  comes.  I  have  seen  the  scab  still  on  men's 
back  months  after  they  were  punished ;  and  the  scars 
never  disappear. 

I  forgot  that  I  was  in  prison.  I  forgot  that  men 
who  resisted  in  that  cellar  often  died  of  the  water 
torture.  I  forgot  everything  except  the  humilia- 
tion. 

"Deputy,"  I  said,  "if  you  strip  me  like  a  slave 
and  beat  me  in  that  manner,  some  day  I'll  kill  you, 
if  it's  the  last  act  of  my  life."  ■  Then  my  rage 
choked  me,  so  I  couldn't  talk  any  more ;  I  was  shak- 
ing all  over. 

Judging  by  his  look,  I  didn't  disturb  him.  As 
softly  as  though  he  were  speaking  to  his  girl,  he  said : 

"Jennings,  I  order  men  whipped  only  to  make 
them  obey  the  rules.     I  believe  it  would  only  make 

192 


THE    DEPTHS 

you  worse.      But,   by  ,  you're   going  to   obey. 

Take  him  to  solitary  indefinitely." 

So  I  went  back  to  solitary,  and  there  I  stayed  for 
more  than   a  month. 

You  have  looked  into  a  kaleidoscope,  I  suppose, 
and  seen  the  colors  combine  and  recombine  as  you 
turn  the  tube.  But  you  couldn't  describe  any  one 
of  those  patterns.  There  are  too  many  of  them, 
and  they  move  too  fast.  No  more  could  I  describe 
to  you  the  shifting,  changing,  miserable  emotions  of 
that  month.  There  were  too  many  of  them ;  they 
came  too  fast.  Further,  my  memory,  when  I  look 
back,  is  all  confused.  I  can't  say  just  when  it  was 
that  I  found  myself  unable  to  concentrate  on  any 
single  line  of  thought,  and  began  beating  my  head 
against  the  wall  with  the  crazy  idea  that  the  action 
would  whip  my  brain  back  to  reason.  Through  it 
all  ran  one  fear:  that  I  should  lose  my  grip  and  be- 
tray the  guard.  Every  day,  when  they  opened  the 
slot  to  push  in  a  can  of  water  and  a  piece  of  bread, 
a  voice  used  to  ask  me  if  "I  was  ready  to  talk."  I 
would  never  answer,  for  fear  my  tongue  would  run 
away,  once  I  started.  Sometimes  in  this  period  the 
temptation  came  over  me.  I  could  end  it  all  by  a 
word — why  not?  I  had  to  fix  my  mind  not  on  the 
guard,  but  liis  wife  and  children.  I  thought  of  them 
deprived  of  their  support,  their  husband  and  father 

193 


BEATING    BACK 

thrown  into  prison  with  the  rest  of  us,  and  tor- 
mented by  his  old  associates — I  knew  what  they'd  do 
to  him.  I  arranged  and  rearranged  mental  photo- 
graphs of  his  wife  doing  washing,  his  children  picked 
up  starving  in  the  streets. 

A  time  arrived  when  that  temptation  ceased  to 
assail  me.  And  the  daily  voice  at  the  bars  also 
ceased.  Only  the  one  episode  of  the  day,  when  the 
slit  opened  to  admit  bread  and  water,  showed  that 
I  was  not  forgotten  by  man  and  God. 

There  followed  another  misery  which  wasn't  men- 
tal. Before  I  went  to  solitary  my  digestion  had 
been  going  bad.  The  monotonous  diet  of  bread  and 
water  finished  it.  Try  as  I  would,  I  couldn't  retain 
this  food.  And  I  realized  that  I  was  starving  to 
death.  This  starvation  brought  with  it  phenomena 
of  which  I  had  read — and  always  disbelieved  as 
novelist's  inventions.  I  had  periods  of  light-headed, 
almost  happy,  delusions.  Then  I  was  sitting  before 
banquets,  before  good  meals  which  I  had  eaten  in 
the  past.  I  would  come  out  of  these  visions  into  the 
gnawing  misery  of  hunger.  Acute  physical  pain,  and 
finally  dumb  weakness,  overcame  all  my  mental 
misery.  And  finally  consciousness  faded.  Some 
men  die  twice.  That  was  my  first  death;  the  other 
can    never    again    appeal    to    me    with    its    former 

dread. 

194. 


THE    DEPTHS 

The  prison  doctor — I  recognized  his  voice — was 
saying : 

"It  just  has  to  be  done  if  you  don't  want  him  to 
die."  That  is  the  first  thing  I  remember.  Then  I 
seemed  to  fade  out  again  until  they  had  me  in  a  hos- 
pital bed  with  a  cloth  over  my  eyes.  Some  one  gave 
me  a  little  thin  gruel,  which  I  managed  finally  to  re- 
tain; bye  and  bye  I  grew  conscious  of  my  sur- 
roundings. They  had  me  in  a  ward,  with  one  Louis, 
an  old  professional  post-office  burglar,  for  my  nurse. 
No  woman  could  have  been  more  attentive  and  ten- 
der than  he.  As  day  followed  daj^  and  I  seemed 
to  get  no  better,  Louis  took  me  into  his  confidence. 

"They  want  to  get  rid  of  you,"  said  Louis.  "I 
don't  believe  the  croakers  (his  word  for  doctors)  are 
doing  anything  for  you.  I  believe  they'd  give  you 
the  black  bottle  if  I  didn't  watch  out."  Prisoners 
have  an  old  belief  that  when  a  man  gets  overtrouble- 
some  the  authorities  put  him  into  the  hospital  and 
give  him  a  narcotic  which  finishes  him.  That's  what 
they  mean  by  "the  black  bottle."  There's  more  than 
superstition  in  this  Idea.  The  outside  world  can 
never  understand  how  calloused  prison  authorities 
become,  how  many  deaths  of  dangerous  or  obnox- 
ious convicts  are  caused  by  their  neglect  or  absolute 
intention.  However,  in  my  case  they  were  simply 
giving  the  wrong  treatment.     I  had  been  an  out-of- 

195 


BEATING    BACK 

doors,  meat-fed  man.  My  digestion  had  refused  to 
assimilate  any  more  cereals — and  they  were  trying 
to  nurse  me  back  on  gruel.  What  I  needed  was  the 
solid  food  which  my  appetite  craved.  I  told  Louis 
that,  and  he  understood. 

"You're  right,"  said  Louis.  "You've  got  to  have 
it,  or  you'll  go  out  of  here  in  a  wooden  overcoat. 
But  I'll  fix  it." 

He  did — in  his  own  way.  Every  night  Louis 
sneaked  past  a  sleeping  guard,  picked  the  padlock 
on  a  pantry,  and  brought  me  a  bit  of  substantial 
food — sometimes  only  a  bowl  of  cream,  sometimes  a 
piece  of  cold  meat.  I  believe  he  saved  my  life.  He 
took  a  fearful  risk.  Had  he  been  caught,  he  would 
have  dropped  from  first  class  to  fourth,  which  is 
like  dropping  from  liberty  to  prison. 

I  lay  in  the  hospital  for  two  weeks  before  they 
took  the  bandage  from  my  eyes.  At  that,  I  found 
my  sight,  which  had  always  been  perfect,  perma- 
nently impaired.  It  was  a  week  more  until  I  could 
get  about.  Still  shaky  on  my  legs,  I  was  ordered 
into  the  fourth  or  lowest  class  of  convicts,  and  as- 
signed to  work  on  the  bolt  contract.  No  more  rec- 
reation, not  even  chapel,  no  more  tobacco,  no  more 
letters  home — nothing  except  sleep  and  work,  work 
and  sleep !  I  marched  to  and  from  the  shop  in  lock- 
step.      I   ate   bread   and    molasses   between   two   ne- 

196 


THE    DEPTHS 

groes.  And  I  had  to  keep  absolute  silence  or  risk 
another  session  in  the  cellar. 

But  for  a  time  they  stopped  questioning  me  about 
the  saws.  Nevertheless,  everyone  knew  who  did  it. 
The  guard  had  been  my  best  friend  among  the  offi- 
cials. From  the  time  when  I  began  to  hack  my  way 
out  he  avoided  me.  That  was  a  mistake  in  tactics. 
He  endured  ostracism  and  petty  persecution. 
Finally  he  resigned  and  went  to  farming. 

So  here  I  was,  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  prison. 
This  was  to  be  the  lowest  point  of  my  existence ; 
from  then  on,  it  would  be  a  climb  upward.  But,  of 
course,  I  didn't  know  it  then.  When  I  tottered  to 
the  bolt  shop  for  my  assignment  to  hard  labor,  I 
felt  as  I  had  felt  that  first  day  in  the  Idle  House. 


CHAPTER    X 

THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

PRISONERS  at  the  Ohio  Penitentiary  were  di- 
vided into  four  classes,  graded  downward 
according  to  their  privileges.  After  my  at- 
tempt to  escape,  my  month  in  solitary,  and  my  three 
weeks  in  hospital,  I  was  placed,  as  I  have  said,  in 
the  fourth  class,  which  included  rebels,  incorrigibles, 
and  men  undergoing  heavy  punishment.  The  ordi- 
nary convict,  upon  entering  the  penitentiary,  took 
his  place  in  the  second  class.  From  there,  if  his 
conduct  was  good,  he  might  work  upward  to  the  first 
class.  The  fourth-class  men  also  rose  in  time,  if 
they  showed  a  repentant  spirit  and  weren't  caught 
disobeying  the  rules.  The  only  practical  difference 
lay  in  the  dress.  We  wore  black  and  white  canvas 
stripes,  with  a  blue  stripe  down  the  back  of  the 
jacket;  the  third-grade  men  gray  suits  with  black 
stripes.  We  looked  at  a  distance  like  Bengal  tigers, 
and  they  like  African  zebras.  We  divided  our  time, 
without  variation,  between  the  workshop,  the  dining- 

198 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

room,  and  our  cells.  Alone  among  the  prisoners, 
we  walked  in  lockstep.  On  Sunday  chapel  broke  the 
monotony  for  the  first  and  second-class  men.  We 
were  not  allowed  even  that.  Sunday  dinner  was  sup- 
posed to  be  a  special  affair.  We  each  received  a 
plate  of  beans  blue  with  soda,  a  ration  of  fat  pork — 
often  rancid — and  a  piece  of  "punk"  or  heavy  prison 
bread.  When  we  had  finished  we  dug  a  hole  in  the 
remains  of  our  bread,  filled  it  with  beans,  and  car- 
ried the  whole  mess  to  our  cells  for  supper.  The 
rest  of  the  day  we  lived  in  solitude.  We  could  send 
out  no  letters.     We  had  no  visitors  or  newspapers. 

The  fare  at  "nigger  table" — the  prison  name  for 
our  dining-room — scarcely  suited  the  needs  of  a  man 
just  recovering  from  starvation.  Under  it  I  con- 
tinued thin  and  weak.  Others  more  strongly  con- 
stituted seemed  t'^  thrive.  I  had  next  to  me  for  sev- 
eral weeks  a  prisoner  named  Barker — let  us  call  him 
— who,  at  Sunday  dinner,  would  grab  up  my  un- 
tasted  beans  and  bread  and  tuck  them  into  the  breast 
of  his  shirt.  If  the  guard  looked  away  for  a  mo- 
ment, he  would  raid  the  common  supply.  Often,  in 
marching  behind  him,  I've  had  to  step  sidewisc  to 
keep  from  slipping  on  the  beans  which  rattled  from 
his  clothes. 

Of  Barker  it  used  to  be  said  that  he  never  obeyed 
a  rule.    Once,  during  my  term  in  the  transfer  office,  I 

199 


BEATING    BACK 

saw  him  standing  on  a  box  in  the  middle  of  the 
campus.    He  wore  a  sand^vich  sign  which  read: 

"I  am  the  meanest  man  in  the  Ohio  Penitentiary. 
I  have  been  whipped  every  day  since  I  was  commit- 
ted." The  guards  paraded  the  lines  past  him,  so 
that  the  other  men  could  witness  his  disgrace.  Then 
the  warden  approached  him  and  said : 

"You  have  been  held  up  in  the  sight  of  your  com- 
rades as  one  who  has  disgraced  them." 

"Warden,"  said  Barker,  "it's  the  first  time  I'd 
had  a  chance  to  see  all  the  boys  since  I  came  in 
here."  Even  his  criminal  record  was  unusual.  He 
had  been  convicted  three  times  for  stealing  the  same 
horse. 

As  I  worked  along  in  the  fourth  class,  watching 
everything  convict-fashion,  getting  my  gossip  by 
hints,  gestures,  brief  conversations  from  the  corner 
of  a  mouth,  I  learned  for  certainty  a  few  things 
about  punishment  which  I'd  previously  known  only 
by  rumor.  While  the  whippings  scarred  men  for 
life,  they  never  killed  anyone  to  my  knowledge ;  but 
men  died  of  "tjie  water." 

In  this  form  of  torture  the  guards  took  the  cul- 
prit to  the  cellar  and  stripped  him.  One  or  two 
guards  in  mackintoshes  would  hold  him  from  behind 
while  another  turned  on  his  breast  and  arms  a 
stream  from  a  big  hose  at  sixty  pounds  pressure.    I-t 

200 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

stung  like  a  million  needles.  Then  they'd  turn  it  on 
his  face.  He'd  hold  his  mouth  shut  as  long  as  he 
could,  but  in  time  he  had  to  gasp.  Then  the  stream 
would  go  "swish !"  into  his  mouth,  filling  his  lungs 
and  stomach.  It  always  bowled  him  over.  He'd  lie 
on  the  floor  until  the  doctors  revived  him,  after 
which  it  was  usually  a  term  in  solitary.  One  little 
rebellious  negro  who  worked  next  to  me  in  the  bolt 
shop  got  "the  water"  twice  in  succession.  When  he 
came  back  from  the  second  dose  he  looked  weak  and 
shaky.  And  suddenly  he  spoke  to  me  against 
orders. 

"Boss,  I'se  mighty  sick !"  he  said,  and  immediately 
the  blood  gushed  from  his  mouth.  They  took  him  to 
the  hospital,  and  there  he  died.  This  is  the  only 
case  to  which  I  can  witness  personally,  but  I  know 
of  others  on  information  which  I  cannot  doubt. 

I  found,  also,  the  uses  of  that  high-hanging  pair 
of  handcuffs  which  I  noticed  in  my  dark  cell.  By 
them  the  guards  "strung  up"  especially  vicious  pris- 
oners. The  man  was  suspended  until  his  toes  just 
touched,  and  sometimes  he  endured  this  position  for 
forty-eight  hours.  When  let  down  he  always  col- 
lapsed. 

From  time  to  time,  exposes  of  such  conditions  in 
American  prisons  reach  the  press.  They  always 
come   from   convict   sources,   and   the   wardens    and 

201 


BEATING    BACK 

guards  always  deny  them.*  The  average,  respecta- 
ble citizen  hears  the  word  of  a  convict  against  the 
word  of  duly  appointed  officials — and  you  know 
whom  he  believes.  There's  a  little  whitewashing — 
the  local  color  of  a  penitentiary  is  whitewash — and 
things  proceed  as  ever.  I  am  speaking  now  of  con- 
ditions during  my  prison  terms.  I've  taken  very 
little  interest  in  the  Ohio  State  Penitentiary  since 
1901. 

My  work  lay  in  the  contract  department  of  the 
bolt  shop.  That  was  illegal.  According  to  law, 
Federal  prisoners,  in  which  class  I  belonged,  could 
not  be  worked  on  contract.  But  in  the  general  graft 
system  of  Ohio  the  authorities  overlooked  that.  The 
contractors  paid  thirty  cents  a  day  for  the  services 
of  each  convict,  and  made  what  they  could.  The 
very  hell  of  the  institution  was  the  foundry,  where 
men  labored  ten  or  twelve  hours  a  day  at  steel  work. 
It  killed  a  good  many,  and  wrecked  the  health  of 
others.  Constantly  men  turned  ladles  of  hot  metal 
over  their  own  feet  in  order  to  get  into  the  hospital 
and  rest  up. 

*  For  example:  When  this  part  of  my  story  appeared  in  a 
periodical,  certain  ex-oflBcials  of  the  Ohio  Penitentiary  rushed 
into  print  and  called  me,  point-blank,  a  liar.  Perhaps,  also, 
some  of  them  feared  an  expose  in  the  succeeding  chapters.  In 
answer,  I  can  only  reaffirm  the  truth  of  this  narrative  both  in 
substance  and,  so  far  as  human  memory  goes,  in  detail. — 
A.  J.  J. 

202 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

I  am  aware  that  the  United  States  Steel  Corpora- 
tion works  its  men,  on  certain  processes,  twelve  hours 
a  day,  and  that  the  workers  live  through  it.  But 
the  two  conditions  are  very  different.  The  free  la- 
borer is  fitted  by  constitution  for  the  work,  or  he'd 
never  stay  by  it.  He  can  take  a  day  off  now  and 
then.  In  his  leisure  he  can  get  open  air  and  recrea- 
tion. He  can  buy  the  food  which  suits  him.  Finally, 
and  most  important  of  all,  is  the  mental  attitude. 
He  doesn't  have  to  do  it. 

My  size  and  weakness  saved  me  from  the  foundry. 
The  bolt  shop  was  then,  I  understand,  the  largest 
factory  of  its  kind  in  America.  For  six  months  I 
worked  there  eleven  hours  a  day  at  various  jobs. 
First,  I  separated  faulty  wagon-tire  nuts  from  the 
perfect  ones.  The  product  came  hot  from  the  boil- 
ing water  employed  to  cut  the  grease,  and  my  fin- 
gers got  very  sore.  Then  they  put  me  on  the  header 
machine.  A  guard  who  liked  me  transferred  me  to 
the  shipping  room  as  a  bookkeeper.  It  was  against 
the  rules  for  a  fourth-class  man  to  do  clerical  work. 
The  deputy  discovered  this  irregularity  and  put  me 
back.  I  ended  my  term  in  the  bolt  shop  as  opera- 
tive of  an  automatic  nut  machine.  This  was  the 
finest  piece  of  mechanism  I  had  ever  seen.  I  came  to 
have  for  it  a  queer  personal  affection. 

The  men  on  "piece  price" — an  institution  devised 


BEATING    BACK 

to  beat  the  statutes — received  a  certain  allowance 
from  all  work  above  a  certain  assigned  task.  Some 
made  as  much  as  eighty  cents  a  day — though  this 
was  uncommon.  The  convict  must  deposit  these  earn- 
ings at  the  warden's  office  against  his  release,  but 
he  was  allowed,  as  I  recall  it,  a  dollar  a  month,  which 
he  could  spend  for  tobacco,  leathern  pies  from  the 
restaurant,  or  newspapers.  But  we  contract  men 
had  no  wage  allowance  of  any  kind. 

One  day  as  I  was  driving  my  machine  a  well- 
dressed  man  stepped  up  beside  me  and  watched  the 
nuts  hammering  out  into  the  box.  I  recognized  him ; 
he  had  an  interest  in  the  contract. 

"What  is  the  capacity  of  this  machine.?"  he  asked. 

"Fourteen  pounds  an  hour,  sir,"  I  replied.  I 
quote  this  and  the  following  figures  from  memory. 
I  may  have  them  wrong. 

"How  many  pounds  an  hour  do  you  turn  out.''" 
he  proceeded. 

"Sometimes  only  eleven,  sometimes  as  much  as 
thirteen,"  I  replied. 

"If  you'U  speed  this  machine  up  without  break- 
ing it,  I'll  give  you  a  quarter  of  a  cent  a  pound  for 
every  pound  you  make  over  ten,"  he  said.  That 
meant  perhaps  ten  cents  a  day — only  a  little,  but  it 
gave  me  an  object  in  hfe.  No  free  man  understands 
what  that  means  to  a  fourth-class  convict. 

204 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

The  nut  machine  was  a  delicate  thing,  and  must 
be  sped  up  cautiousl}'.  Twisting  a  screw  a  sixtieth 
part  of  an  inch  too  far  might  smash  all  the  tools  on 
the  head  block.  I  nursed  it  like  a  baby,  and  ran  it 
almost  to  capacity.  By  the  end  of  the  month  I  had 
earned — if  I  remember  riglit — something  more  than 
two  dollars.  On  pay  day  I  presented  myself  in  line 
for  the  money.  The  clerk  stared  at  me — he  couldn't 
find  my  name  on  the  list. 

I  complained  to  the  general  manager  of  our  shop. 
He  looked  sorry  for  me  as  he  said: 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  that !  He 
did  it  to  prove  that  you  could  speed  up  the  ma- 
chine.    It's  an  old  trick !" 

I  worked  on  languidly  now,  my  one  object  in  life 
gone.  So  I  looked  up  on  one  depressed  day,  and 
there  stood  the  sub-contractor  who  had  worked  this 
trick  on  me.  I  saw  him  suddenly — before  I  had  time 
to  get  myself  under  control.  We  eyed  each  other 
for  a  moment.     And  I  spoke  first — against  the  rules. 

"Where's  that  money  you  promised  me?"  I  asked. 

"You're  entitled  to  nothing,"  he  said.  "You've 
proved  that  you  can  run  your  machine  to  capacity. 
Now  do  it,  or  I'll  send  you  to  the  cellar  and  have 
you  punished." 

I  heard  a  movement  at  my  back,  and  knew  that 
the  guard  was  closing  in  on  me.      He  started  too 

205 


BEATING    BACK 

late.  I  grabbed  my  hammer  and  struck  to  kill.  The 
contractor  dodged,  and  ran  down  the  steps,  the 
hammer  after  him.  The  guard  grabbed  me,  and  an 
uproar  followed. 

"You'll  go  to  the  cellar !"  he  said,  and  in  an  under- 
tone :  "I  hate  to  do  it,  but  too  many  saw  this !"  I 
turned  sick.  I  knew  what  I'd  suffered  in  the  cellar 
before. 

I  was  surprised  when  I  reported  for  trial  next 
morning  to  find  myself  charged  simply  with  talking 
without  permission.  The  guard,  however,  had  made 
a  full  verbal  report  to  the  deputy.  Things  were 
sometimes  done  that  way,  in  order  to  keep  the  offense 
off  the  records.  A  full  investigation  would  have 
brought  out  the  contractor's  little  trick. 

Deputy  Dawson  looked  at  me  a  long  time,  in  his 
cool,  determined  way,  before  he  said: 

"You  have  an  awful  temper.  Maybe  you're  not 
to  blame  this  time.  That  man  had  no  business 
there."  I  remember  that  he  sputtered  for  a  mo- 
ment before  he  added:  "I  wish  I  were  boss  here! 
I'd  cut  those  damned  contracts  out  of  this  place. 
They  make  most  of  my  trouble  with  the  prisoners." 

So  I  returned,  this  time,  without  punishment  or 
reprimand.  When  Deputy  Dawson  had  a  free  hand 
he  could  be  depended  upon  to  deal  out  justice.  I'd 
have  trusted  him  much  sooner  than  the  average  po- 

206 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

lice  magistrate.  But  he,  like  the  prisoner,  was  con- 
fronted by  the  system  which  controlled  Ohio  poli- 
tics. 

That  trick  of  the  contractor  appeals  to  me  now 
as  the  most  despicable  thing  I  ever  knew.  And  I 
was  not  the  only  victim  of  this  device  for  increas- 
ing profits.  A  few  weeks  later  the  fire  bell  rang  in 
the  night.  The  guards  took  their  places  along  the 
cellar  tier  in  order  to  get  us  out  if  the  fire  should 
reach  our  block;  and  they  told  us  that  the  shops 
were  burning.  The  fire,  as  we  learned  later,  started 
in  the  bolt  shop.  Perhaps  I  was  the  only  man,  be- 
sides the  incendiary,  who  understood  its  origin. 
Even  then  the  evidence  is  circumstantial.  A  life- 
termer,  who  had  been  "speeded  up"  in  some  such 
manner  as  I,  had  asked  me  in  passing  snatches,  a 
few  days  before,  if  I  knew  how  long  it  would  take  an 
inch  of  candle  to  burn. 

While  they  were  rebuilding  the  bolt  works,  six 
or  seven  hundred  of  us  loafed  in  the  Idle  House.  In 
a  month  they  had  the  new  buildings  roofed  over, 
and  we  returned  to  our  jobs.  Nearly  six  months 
had  passed  since  I  had  first  put  on  the  fourth-grade 
stripes.  My  health  was  failing  fast,  owing  to  my 
trouble  with  prison  food,  and  the  silent  routine  had 
begun  eating  into  me. 

Besides  the  hope  of  escape,  the  only  interest  of  a 
207 


BEATING    BACK 

fourth-class  man  is  the  attempt  to  break  that  kill- 
ing, deadening  routine.  For  example,  our  prison 
consumed  twice  as  many  drugs  as  the  prisoners  ever 
took.  A  fourth-class  prisoner  would  put  in  an  or- 
der for  quinine  or  pills  just  to  make  the  clerk  come 
to  his  door  in  the  evening  for  a  chat  or  a  spat.  When 
the  visitor  had  gone  he'd  throw  away  the  drugs.  I 
could  write  a  chapter  on  the  malingering  by  which 
men  imitated  the  symptoms  of  tuberculosis  or 
chronic  digestive  troubles,  in  order  to  get  pardons- 
There  was  just  as  much  malingering  to  get  a  day 
in  the  hospital,  with  leisure  and  special  food.  Every 
morning  the  doctors  thrust  thermometers  into  the 
mouths  of  the  "sick  line."  Unless  one  could  show 
a  temperature,  he  usually  returned  to  work.  To 
produce  this  effect  the  men  would  put  cayenne  pep- 
per under  their  tongues — an  agonizing  process, 
which,  however,  usually  brought  results.  In  this 
connection,  I  once  broke  routine  myself  by  a  practi- 
cal joke. 

A  little  negro  worked  next  to  me  in  the  shops. 
One  morning  he  got  a  chance  to  say  from  the  corner 
of  his  mouth: 

"Boss,  how  does  those  fellows  git  sent  to  hospital.? 
I'd  pow'ful  like  to  rest  up  an'  eat  some  good  grub." 

"Jack,  I'll  teU  you,"  I  said.  "To-morrow  morn- 
ing report  yourself  sick.     Then  steal  a  piece  of  ice 

208 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

from  the  water  cooler,  and,  just  before  the  croaker 
takes  your  temperature,  put  it  under  your  tongue." 
Next  morning  I  reported  myself  sick  and  followed 
the  negro  to  see  the  fun. 

The  doctor  took  the  thermometer  from  the  ne- 
gro's mouth,  and  looked  it  over  carelessly  until  he 
caught  the  figures.  Then  his  eyes  popped  out  of 
his  head. 

"Jiminy  crickets,  nigger!"  he  exclaimed,  "you're 
dead !" 

At  that  the  negro's  mouth  flew  open  with  surprise, 
and  out  came  the  piece  of  ice.  Doctors,  convicts, 
and  guards  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"Get  into  bed,"  said  the  boss  doctor.  "You've 
sprung  a  new  one  on  me,  and  you  deserve  a  re- 
ward !" 

The  time  had  long  passed  when,  according  to  cus- 
tom— there  was  no  rule  in  the  matter — I  should 
have  been  promoted  out  of  fourth  class ;  and  still  I 
wore  stripes  and  worked  in  the  bolt  shop.  By  this 
and  various  other  signs  I  realized  that  from  one  of 
the  pet  convicts  I  had  become  a  star  sinner,  with  a 
reputation  for  trying  to  escape.  Had  they  only 
known  it,  my  main,  driving  motive  for  escape  was 
gone.  Frank,  Bud,  and  Bill  had  been  sent  to  the 
penitentiary  at  Fort  Leavenworth  under  circum- 
stances which,  when  I  heard  them,  made  me  almost 

209 


BEATING    BACK 

happy  with  gratitude  and  admiration.  The  authori- 
ties had  a  hard  time  getting  enough  evidence  to  con- 
vict them  of  compHcitj'  in  the  Chickasha  robbery. 
Finally  an  under  official  made  them  an  offer  which 
they  accepted.  If  they  would  plead  guilty  to  a 
minor  offense  and  take  five  years,  the  authorities 
would  see  that  my  sentence  was  commuted  from  life 
to  five  years.  Had  they  stood  pat,  they  might  have 
gone  clear;  they  cheerfully  took  a  sentence  to  re- 
lease me.  The  authorities  acted  in  bad  faith  again. 
Once  Frank,  Bud,  and  Bill  were  safely  landed  at 
Fort  Leavenworth,  they  made  not  the  slightest  move 
for  my  release. 

A  lucky  circumstance  brought  my  promotion  from 
fourth  class.  Before  my  attempt  at  escape  I  had 
played  the  tuba  in  the  prison  band.  When  I  went 
into  stripes,  with  no  privileges,  the  band  stopped  for 
want  of  a  tuba  player.  Some  special  entertainment 
was  coming  in  prison  chapel,  and  the  guards  who 
arranged  the  program  wanted  a  band.  Moreover,  a 
real  bandmaster,  a  thorough  German  musician,  had 
just  entered  the  prison.  So  there  came  a  sudden 
order  transferring  me  from  the  bolt  contract  to  the 
state  shop,  and  from  fou^-th  grade  to  second.  That 
night  the  guards  took  me  over  to  the  school  room, 
and  we  had  band  practice.  I  was  sitting  there  en- 
joying myself  mightily  with  my  new  liberty  and  my 

210 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

instrument,  when  Warden  Coffin  entered  the  room. 
He  cheered  our  rehearsal  and  seemed  in  high  spirits 
to  know  that  the  band  was  playing  again,  until  he 
got  sight  of  my  face.  He  stopped  like  a  pointer  dog 
on  a  quail. 

"Who  brought  you  out?"  he  asked.  I  didn't 
know,  and  I  so  informed  him.  The  guard  in  charge 
explained  that  I  was  the  only  tuba  player  in  the 
prison.  Again,  as  it  turned  out,  I  owed  gratitude 
to  the  gruff  but  just  deputy.  He  had  seen  other 
men,  no  worse  than  I,  promoted  from  fourth  class 
over  my  head,  and  he  had  taken  the  first  chance  to 
raise  me.  I  understand  that  the  warden  and  deputy 
had  high  words  that  night ;  but  it  was  done,  and 
couldn't  be  undone  without  trouble. 

Now,  Ohio  had  elected  a  governor,  which  meant  a 
change  in  administrative  offices,  and  a  new  warden — 
Darby.  The  news  went  through  the  prison,  followed 
by  suppressed  excitement.  The  transfer  of  office 
was  to  be  made,  and  the  new  warden  to  take  charge, 
during  chapel  services  of  a  Sunday.  Not  a  heart  in 
the  institution  but  beat  a  little  quicker  as  the  time 
approached.  In  this  man  lay  all  our  individual  hopes 
of  easy  berths,  and  perhaps  of  release. 

Yet,  as  it  happened,  I  was  perhaps  the  only  man 
among  us  who  did  not  see  the  new  warden  enter 
chapel  that  morning.      The  band  had  prepared  a 

211 


BEATING    BACK 

special  overture,  and  I  played  a  tuba  solo.  I  had 
groomed  that  solo  to  the  last  hair.  Also,  I  felt  like 
playing  that  morning.  I  put  my  whole  heart  into 
the  music,  and,  when  I  finished,  the  men  called  me 
back  three  times  to  repeat.  Applause  during  chapel 
was  one  thing  wliich  the  guards  could  never  stop. 
The  boys  used  even  to  applaud  the  chaplain's  ser- 
mons. So  I  grew  a  little  drunk  with  the  cheering,  as 
all  dramatic  stars  do,  and  forgot  to  watch  the  vacant 
chair  on  the  platform.  As  I  turned  to  my  seat  I 
faced  it.  No  longer  was  it  vacant.  A  big,  pleasant- 
faced  man  sat  there,  clapping  vigorously.  I  ac- 
knowledged his  applause  by  a  little  inclination  of  my 
head. 

Prisoners  grow  very  observant.  They  are  always 
scrutinizing  faces  for  the  little,  unconsidered  turn  of 
expression.  Especially  do  they  watch  their  supe- 
riors for  any  signs  of  mercy  or  severity  or  personal 
attention.  All  during  the  sermon  I  had  a  corner  of 
my  eye  on  the  two  wardens  as  they  sat  covertly  whis- 
pering. I  saw  that  they  were  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion, and  presently  the  new  warden,  Mr.  Darby, 
turned  and  looked  straight  at  me.  The  thermometer 
of  my  expectations  went  down  forty  degrees ;  for  I 
knew  that  the  retiring  warden  was  loading  him  up 
with  information.  If  I  had  been  called  upon  to  re- 
peat mj'  solo,  it  would  have  gone  flat.     Then  I  saw 

212 


THE  DAWN  OF  HOPE 

the  new  warden  settle  back  with  a  strange,  deter- 
mined look  which  I  didn't  undertsand.  They  went  on 
talking,  and  the  old  warden  seemed  to  be  excited. 
His  face  took  on  a  heightened  color ;  he  even  forgot 
the  place  and  the  eyes  on  him,  and  made  gestures. 
I  left  the  platform  in  doubt,  which  did  not  last  long. 
After  chapel  service  the  other  musicians  remained 
in  the  hall,  while  I  was  locked  up — a  special  mark 
of  disfavor.  So  plain  was  the  sign  that  other  con- 
victs, passing  my  grating  that  afternoon,  asked  me 
from  the  corner  of  the  mouth  what  in  blazes  I'd  done 
this  time.  Let  me  say,  before  I  dismiss  him,  that 
Warden  Coffin  had  a  pretty  good  heart.  He  felt, 
though,  that  I  had  betrayed  him  when  I  took  ad- 
vantage of  my  special  privileges  to  attempt  an  es- 
cape, and  for  such  a  performance  he  had  little  ad- 
miration. 

On  Monday  morning  I  went  back  to  the  bolt  shop 
with  the  feeling  that  another  hope  had  died.  That 
afternoon  I  was  working  mechanically  when  a  war- 
den's messenger,  distinguished  by  a  red  stripe  on  his 
trousers,  handed  my  guard  an  order.  The  guard 
turned  to  me. 

"You  are  wanted  out  front  by  order  of  the  war- 
den," he  said. 

Now  if,  at  this  moment,  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  say,  should  send  for  me,  I'd  think  at 

213 


BEATING    BACK 

once  of  something  pleasant — I'd  go  to  him  expecting 
good  luck.  But  when  a  prisoner  is  summoned  by  the 
authorities  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  bad  luck.  That 
is  one  great  difference  between  a  free  man  and  a 
prisoner.  In  prison  all  the  lines  run  downward.  As 
I  left  my  machine  I  wondered  what  I  had  been  dis- 
covered doing.  I  had  smoked  two  or  three  cigars 
surreptitiously.  I  had  talked  against  orders.  Yet 
these  offenses  would  take  me  to  the  cellar,  not  the 
warden's  office.  Then  I  got  a  shock  like  a  flood  wave, 
which  left  me,  in  my  underfed,  weak  condition,  as 
limp  as  a  rag.  I  remembered  that  a  summons  to  the 
warden's  office  generally  meant  bad  news  from  home. 
A  prisoner  has  nothing  but  his  imagination  to  work 
on.  Mine  ran  so  vividly  that  I  was  staggering  when 
I  reached  the  guard  room. 

That  big,  broad-shouldered,  kindly  faced  man  who 
was  the  new  warden  met  me  at  the  door. 
"Sit  down,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  kind. 
In  my  dirty,  oil-soaked  working  suit  I  sank  into 
a  chair.     Never  in  my  life  have  I  been  in  a  more  un- 
certain state  of  mind. 

"I  had  a  very  good  account  of  you  from  Warden 
Coffin  yesterday,"  he  said.  Then  it  wasn't  death  in 
the  family ! 

"I'm  surprised,"  I  said.  "Warden  Coffin  hasn't 
reason  to  say  anything  good  of  me,  for  I  violated  his 

214 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

confidence  by  trying  to  escape,"  I  went  on,  I  re- 
member, and  explained  just  why  I  had  sawed  the 
bars. 

"I  was  a  little  surprised  myself,"  said  the  new 
warden,  "at  the  kind  words  he  used.  He  said  you 
were  the  stubbornest  son-of-a-gun  in  the  institution." 
We  both  laughed,  then  we  fell  to  talking  freely. 

"When  I  came  into  this  place  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  no  one  would  prejudice  me  against  a  soul  in 
here.  After  all,  we're  just  men,"  said  Warden  Darby. 
He  went  on  frankly  to  tell  of  his  first  impressions. 
The  things  he  had  seen  in  the  "nut  house"  and  the 
foundries  had  pretty  well  sickened  him.  He  led  me 
to  give  my  own  impressions  and  to  suggest  reme- 
dies. He  seemed  impressed  by  two  of  my  ideas — 
first,  that  most  of  the  prison  mutinies,  murders,  and 
disturbances  came  from  inconsiderate  treatment  in 
little  things,  and,  second,  that  it  was  a  crime  to  work 
light  and  weak  men  on  heavy  contracts.  All  this 
time  a  place  in  the  back  of  my  head  was  at  work, 
wondering  what  this  man  would  do  for  me,  and  hope 
grew.  Suddenly  he  broached  that  subject,  and  spoke 
about  as  follows: 

"I  know  about  your  history.  I've  had  it  from 
both  sides.  You  have  been  handled  roughly,  and 
again  you've  been  treated  pretty  humanly.  You're 
in  delicate  health.     You  can't  live  long  on  the  bolt 

215 


BEATING    BACK 

contract.     I'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance,  for  I  be- 
lieve you  are  all  right." 

You  can  imagine  how  happy  I  felt  for  a  moment. 
But  he  hadn't  finished  talking.     He  went  on : 

"I  know  that  a  guard  gave  you  the  saws  by  which 
you  tried  to  escape.  A  man  who  does  that  isn't  fit 
for  a  place  in  this  institution.  He  was  prompted 
by  kindness,  and  for  that  I'll  be  merciful.  He  could 
get  ten  years,  but,  if  you'll  tell  me  who  he  was,  I'll 
send  him  home  without  further  punishment,  and  I 
won't  mention  your  name." 

The  world  went  black  again,  and  never  in  my  life 
was  I  so  tempted  as  in  that  moment.  By  now  every- 
one knew  who  gave  me  the  saws.  He  had  made  the 
mistake  of  keeping  away  from  me.  If  he  had  main- 
tained his  friendly  attitude  no  one  would  have  sus- 
pected him  so  much;  this  made  certainty  of  suspi- 
cion. He'd  lose  his  job  eventually;  I  wouldn't  hurt 
him  very  much  if  I  did  tell.  I  wondered,  too,  how 
long  I  could  live  on  the  bolt  contract  and  on  the 
food  at  the  common  dining-room.  I  had  to  get  up 
all  my  resolution  to  answer : 

"Warden,  I  expected  something  better  trom  you 
than  that.  I're  never  betrayed  a  trust,  whatever 
else  I've  done.    I  can't  now." 

Warden  Darby  turned  abruptly  to  a  guard. 

"Take  him  back  to  the  bolt  contract,"  he  said. 
216 


THE    DAWN    OF    HOPE 

If  I  had  possessed  the  weapon,  I  should  have 
killed  myself  on  the  spot,  I  remembered  that  there 
was  material  like  knives  and  crushing  machines  in 
the  bolt  works.  I  went  back  with  the  firm,  fixed  in- 
tention of  ending  my  life  sentence  then  and  there. 
But  as  I  crossed  the  yard  a  whistle  blew.  The  men 
came  out  of  the  shops,  and  a  guard  shoved  me  into 
line.  We  marched  to  the  dining-room,  where  we 
sopped  up  molasses  with  chunks  of  bread — no 
knives,  no  tools  of  any  kind.  After  that  it  was  my 
bare  cell;  and,  when  I'd  thought  all  night  and  got  a 
little  sleep,  I  was  willing  to  take  another  chance  with 
Ufe. 

But  before  I'd  settled  down  to  my  machine,  the 
warden's  runner  came  in  with  another  order :  "Send 
31539  to  the  state  shop."  The  state  shop  was  the 
place  where  they  changed  a  man's  clothes  when  he 
went  from  one  grade  to  the  other.  I  didn't  begin 
to  understand  until  I  saw  them  coming  with  a  shirt 
and  tie.  I  ventured  to  ask  the  superintendent  what 
had  happened: 

"An  order  from  the  warden  to  dress  you  in  first- 
class  uniform  is  all  I  know,"  he  said.  Then  a  patrol 
guard  led  me  to  the  chaplain's  office,  and  explained. 
I  was  promoted  to  the  first  class  and  a  position  as 
chaplain's  clerk. 

I  suspected  then  what  I  knew  afterward — Warden 
217 


BEATING    BACK 

Darby  had  been  merely  testing  me.  He  knew  that 
a  man  who  stood  by  his  word  had  manhood  in  him, 
even  though  he  were  "the  stubbornest  son-of-a-gun" 
in  the  Ohio  State  Penitentiary.  When  I  refused  to 
betray  the  guard  I  paved  the  way  for  my  Hberty. 
We  never  know  our  luck  when  we  see  it,  I  suppose. 


CHAPTER    XI 

PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

1  LAUGH  now  when  I  think  that  I  got  into  trou- 
ble on  my  very  first  day  with  the  chaplain.  I 
had  been  appointed  over  his  head;  naturally 
he  preferred  to  pick  his  own  men  from  among  his 
sincere  or  insincere  converts.  The  first  morning 
he  held  prayers  in  the  office.  I  was  then  a  skeptic 
of  skeptics,  though  I've  changed  my  views  concern- 
ing religion  since.  Therefore,  I  refused  to  kneel. 
He  reported  me.  I  went  to  the  cellar.  The  deputy, 
after  hearing  both  sides,  ruled  that  no  man  could  be 
punished  for  his  religious  convictions. 

Part  of  my  duty  was  to  interrogate  incoming  pris- 
oners concerning  their  private  life,  and  to  enter  the 
answers  on  the  proper  blanks.  Then  and  there  I 
had  a  light  on  prison  statistics.  One  of  the  ques- 
tions ran:  "To  what  do  you  attribute  your  down- 
fall?" In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  experienced 
prisoner  answered  "drink."  Men  who  never  tasted 
liquor,  because  they  didn't  like  it,  returned  that  an- 

219 


BEATING    BACK 

swer  just  the  same.  To  begin  with,  it  was  a  good, 
easy,  conventional  reason,  which  stopped  further 
questioning;  and  then  it  gave  the  burglar,  the  mur- 
derer, and  the  counterfeiter  an  excuse  to  work  up 
sympathy.  Men  Avho  had  served  many  terms  used  to 
smile  as  they  said  it,  and  I  grew  so  tired  of  putting 
down  this  insincere  answer  that  I  used  to  write 
"natural  depravity"  or  "common  thief,"  which  was 
just  as  near  the  truth. 

In  time  they  transferred  me  to  the  post-office. 
There  I  served  under  the  Hon.  Tom  Brannan,  post- 
master of  the  institution — a  state  appointee,  not  a 
convict.  He  was  one  of  the  most  sincere  Christians 
I  had  ever  known.  My  fellow  assistant  was  Billy 
Raidler,  a  train  robber,  doing  a  ten-year  sentence 
from  Oklahoma.  The  marshals  shot  him,  crippling 
him  for  life,  when  they  captured  him.  We  had  with 
us  also  a  murderer  doing  a  life  term.  There  are 
conversions  in  prison,  and  again  there  are  other  con- 
versions. Some  convicts  sincerely  embrace  religion ; 
others  do  it  for  policy.  I  won't  say  in  which  class 
he  belonged,  but,  since  Mr.  Brannan  was  rehgious,  a 
little  religion  didn't  hurt  the  chances  of  an  assistant. 
This  man  made  a  great  parade  of  hymn  singing  and 
prayer,  so  that  Billy  and  I  would  throw  weights  at 
him.  Then  Mr.  Brannan  would  interfere,  saying 
that,  while  the  boy  might  shoot  a  few  craps  now  and 

220 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

then,  it  was  a  great  thing  to  be  on  the  Lord's  side. 
When  Billy  and  I  started  swearing  in  the  office,  Mr. 
Brannan  would  only  whistle  and  say:  "Boys,  this  is 
awful."  We  respected  his  feelings  so  much  that  we 
cured  ourselves  of  the  habit. 

The  post-office  was  one  of  the  interesting  depart- 
ments— you  can't  appreciate  how  interesting  and 
how  touching  unless  you  yourself  have  lived  within 
stone  walls,  eating  your  heart  out  for  a  word  from 
home.  My  duty,  besides  helping  address  letters  on 
writing  day,  was  to  deliver  mail  on  the  ranges.  By 
the  rules,  the  letters  which  came  into  the  prison  post- 
office  were  opened  by  the  postmaster  or  his  clerks 
and  spread  out  in  great  stacks  on  the  desk  for  read- 
ing and  inspection.  Sometimes  they  contained  money 
ranging  in  value  from  ten  cents  to  ten  dollars.  That 
was  always  appropriated  and  deposited  to  the  pris- 
oner's account.  More  often  forbidden  things  were 
said  in  the  text,  owing  to  the  writer's  ignorance  of 
prison  rules — such  as  abuse  of  officials,  plans  for  es- 
cape, and  information  of  measures  on  foot  for  re- 
lease. This  last  class  of  news  is  supposed  to  come 
only  through  the  warden.  The  penalty  for  these 
offenses  fell  not  on  the  writer,  but  on  the  convict, 
who,  upon  being  reported,  lost  his  writing  permit. 
When  such  a  matter  came  to  his  attention  Uncle 
Tom  Brannan  would  undergo   a   struggle    between 

221 


BEATING    BACK 

Christian  duty  and  Christian  mercy.  He  always 
made  the  same  decision.  He  would  put  the  letter  in 
his  pocket,  find  occasion  to  have  a  quiet  talk  with  the 
prisoner  about  it,  and  officially  overlook  the  incident. 
Sometimes  we'd  find  little  bits  of  fancy  work,  like 
embroidered  handkerchiefs,  done  by  the  prisoner's 
women  folks.  To  confiscate  these  articles — which 
we  must  do  according  to  the  rules — gave  my  heart 
the  greatest  wrench  of  all. 

Sometimes  letters  would  go  astray.  Then  the 
prisoner  would  write  to  the  warden,  accusing  Mr. 
Brannan  and  his  clerks  of  every  crime  from  larceny 
to  highway  robbery.  The  investigation  always 
proved  that  we  had  exercised  the  strictest  honesty. 
I  used  to  think  that  no  man,  unless  he  was  devoid  of 
every  principle,  would  think  of  holding  out  a  penny 
or  a  line  of  writing  under  such  circumstances.  How- 
ever, it  had  happened.  One  of  my  predecessors 
put  away  several  hundred  dollars  by  appropriating 
the  loose  money  whenever  it  was  not  mentioned  in  the 
text.  Billy  Raidler  learned  this,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  he  told  me,  he  had  to  fight  temptation 
to  turn  state's  evidence.  The  expose  came  from 
other  sources,  and  this  man  went  back  to  work  on 
the  contracts. 

I  have  returned  from  my  nightly  rounds  with  the 
tears  starting  in  my  eyes.      They  were  so  patheti- 

222 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

cally  eager,  and  so  often  disappointed !  Almost  uni- 
versally the  friends  and  relatives  of  a  new  man  fail 
to  write  during  the  first  month,  which  is  the  hardest 
of  all  to  bear.  I  recognized  these  new  men  by  the 
serial  numbers  on  their  doors.  They  would  creep  to 
the  bars  and  whisper — for  they  are  generally  timid 
when  they  first  go  in — "Ain't  there  a  letter  for  me.'"' 
I  knew  there  was  none,  but  I'd  stop  and  run  through 
my  pack  to  satisfy  them. 

Though  prisoners  were  supposed  to  have  no 
money,  except  the  little  tobaco  allowance  for  over- 
time, the  old  and  experienced  among  them  knew  ways 
of  keeping  cash  about  their  cells  for  emergencies. 
And  I  hadn't  served  in  the  post-office  long  before 
they  began  offering  me  bribes  to  get  out  extra  let- 
ters. The  first-grade  men  could  write  letters  on 
two  Sundays  a  month;  the  second-grade  on  one. 
That  made  Sunday  and  Monday  busy  days  for  us. 
I  would  deliver  the  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  without 
envelopes,  to  each  privileged  man.  Then  I'd  help 
out  the  illiterate.  On  Monday  morning  we  collected 
these  unsealed  letters,  stacked  them  in  the  post- 
office  for  reading,  and  finally  addressed,  stamped, 
and  sealed  them.  Now,  some  men  with  many  friends 
wanted  to  write  more  than  one  or  two  letters  a 
month ;  and  others  wanted  to  send  out  information 
which  wouldn't  stand  inspection.     They  would  poke 

223 


BEATING    BACK 

a  silver  coin  or  sometimes  a  bill  at  me ;  I  would 
profess  not  to  see  the  motion.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  did  help  certain  friends  or  certain  others  who  had 
an  especially  appealing  reason.  Every  prison,  I 
suppose,  has  this  transmission  of  contraband  mail. 
It  is  called,  vulgarly,  the  "sewer  route."  Before  I 
had  been  in  the  post-office  long  my  brother  Frank, 
in  the  Fort  Leavenworth  Penitentiary,  himself  con- 
nected with  the  sewer  route.  Using  some  old  asso- 
ciations as  an  entering  wedge,  he  became  friendly 
with  a  guard.  This  man  went  home  for  a  visit 
every  fortnight.  I  sent  my  letters  for  Frank  to 
this  guard  at  his  home  address.  He  would  pass 
them  to  Frank  when  a  good  opportunity  came.  He 
also  smuggled  out  Frank's  letters  to  me.  From 
my  position  in  the  post-office  I  had  little  trouble  in 
preventing  the  inspection  of  my  incoming  or  out- 
going mail. 

During  my  term  an  escape  was  arranged  by  the 
"sewer  route."  We  had  among  us  an  old  profes- 
sional burglar  whom  I'll  call  Charlie.  He  belonged 
to  a  famous  gang  which,  as  soon  as  he  went  up  for 
a  long  term,  began  planning  his  escape.  The  subse- 
quent plot  involved  a  guard,  who  passed  the  letters 
in  and  out.  It  was  arranged  to  have  Charlie  called 
as  a  witness  in  another  case.  He  went  under  guard, 
of  course.     On  his  return  trip  the  train  was  packed 

224 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

with  his  confederates.  Just  as  the  train  stopped, 
one  man  threw  red  pepper  into  the  guard's  eyes, 
and  pulled  a  gun.  The  rest  of  the  gang  grabbed 
the  nearest  passengers  by  the  shoulders,  yelling: 
"Sit  down !  You'll  be  shot !  Don't  take  chances  !" 
Charlie  and  his  confederates  got  away  without  pur- 
suit, and  friends  in  Columbus  hid  him  until  he 
could  be  smuggled  into  Canada.  I  was  to  see  Char- 
lie again  years  later,  under  curious  circumstances. 
Though,  as  I  have  said,  I  took  no  bribes,  Billy 
and  I  did  have  a  form  of  graft  which  we  considered 
perfectly  legitimate  at  the  time.  The  office  al- 
lowed one  two-cent  stamp  to  each  prisoner  on  each 
writing  day.  Some  of  the  men  had  no  friends  out- 
side, and  some  had  fallen  into  a  state  of  bitter 
despair,  in  which  they  hated  the  world.  The  stamps 
which  they  didn't  use  belonged  to  us  by  custom. 
Sometimes  Billy  and  I  each  made  as  much  as  four 
dollars  a  week  by  this  method.  It  served  to  buy  a 
few  little  comforts  and  luxuries,  such  as  contra- 
band beefsteaks  from  the  commissary  department. 
It  served,  too,  another  purpose.  Often,  when  a  pa- 
trol guard  entered  the  post-office  to  mail  a  letter, 
he  would  throw  do^vn  the  money  for  the  stamps. 
Billy  and  I  would  shove  it  back  at  him,  and  stamp 
his  letter  from  our  private  stock.  When  next  that 
guard  saw  us  with  contraband  goods  he  would  turn 

225 


BEATING    BACK 

his  head  and  look  the  other  way.  Only  two  or  three 
couldn't  be  corrupted  by  this  small  bribe — notably 
one  laced-backed  Puritan  whom  the  men  hated  for 
his  severity.  Billy  Raidler,  on  account  of  his  disa- 
bility, was  a  privileged  character  in  the  Ohio  Peni- 
tentiary.    One  day  he  said  to  this  guard: 

"What  makes  you  so  mean?" 

The  guard's  face  turned  purple.    Then  he  said: 

"I  am  just  as  strict  with  my  own  children  at 
home." 

"Then  God  pity  your  children,"  said  Billy. 

Perhaps  because  of  the  reaction  from  the  bolt 
shop  and  the  dark  cell,  those  post-office  days  were 
the  happiest  I  knew  in  prison.  We  slept  in  the 
office.  On  Sundays,  when  our  writing-day  business 
was  over,  we  had  the  freedom  of  the  offices  and  the 
yard;  we  were  even  allowed  to  play  checkers  or 
dominoes  and  pitch  quoits.  We  could  also  gamble 
at  penny  ante — surreptitiously.  This  was  an  of- 
fense punishable  almost  by  electrocution.  That  we 
sometimes  took  the  chance  shows  what  men  will  do 
just  to  beat  a  prohibition.  We  had  found  a  little 
nook  over  the  chapel  study.  There,  of  Sunday 
nights,  we  could  be  pretty  safe  from  discovery,  and 
that  became  the  Monte  Carlo  of  the  first-class 
clerks.  The  stakes  were  high,  considering  circum- 
stances.    To  lose  twenty-five  cents  might  mean  the 

226 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

loss  of  tobacco  for  a  week.  When  a  jack  pot 
mounted  as  high  as  forty  cents  there  were  some 
anxious  faces. 

That  institution  was  running  full  blast  even  back 
in  the  days  when  I  worked  as  transfer  clerk,  and 
once  it  got  us  all  into  a  tight  fix. 

One  cold,  sleety  Sunday  night,  Ikey,  a  clerk  in 
the  construction  office,  helped  me  carry  Billy  Raid- 
ler  up  to  our  nook  over  the  chapel  study — for  Billy 
couldn't  walk  alone.  The  party  included  seven  or 
eight  men,  all  holding  important  jobs.  I  was  deal- 
ing, when  one  of  my  old  intuitions,  which  so  often 
saved  me  on  the  plains,  made  me  look  up  at  the 
transom  over  the  door. 

There  was  the  deputy ! 

We  had  sprinkled  ashes  on  the  steps,  so  that  the 
crunching  would  warn  us  of  an  approach,  and  we 
kept  the  dominoes  ready  to  sweep  into  the  place  of 
the  cards.  But  the  deputy  had  done  the  unexpected 
by  coming  through  the  chapel. 

The  look  on  my  face  was  sufficient  warning  to 
the  crowd.  I  got  up  as  nonchalantly  as  I  could,  and 
opened  the  door. 

The  deputy  looked  us  over  pretty  thoroughly, 
and  his  first  words  reassured  me. 

"Who  brought  little  Billy  Raidler  out  this  cold, 
dark  night.?"  he  asked. 

227 


BEATING    BACK 

"I  was  one  of  them,  deputy,"  I  said. 

"Boys,  don't  you  know  better  than  to  play 
poker?"  he  asked  unexpectedly.  You  cannot  un- 
derstand in  ten  thousand  years  how  ticklish  that 
moment  was.  His  words  were  falling  soft  and  low, 
but  I  didn't  know  whether  to  take  fright  or  en- 
couragement from  his  tone. 

"Jennings,"  the  deputy  went  on,  "you  got  the 
money.  That  was  what  you  were  sent  here  for, 
wasn't  it.''  I'll  take  it  now."  I  handed  it  over. 
He  dumped  it — three  or  four  dollars — into  his  coat 
pocket,  nearly  breaking  our  hearts. 

"Now,"  he  said,  still  as  softly,  "some  of  you  take 
Billy  back  to  the  post-office."  Then  he  burst  like 
a  storm  cloud:  "Get  to  the  places  where  you  sleep, 
and,  if  I  ever  catch  you  again,  you  won't  sit  down 
for  six  weeks !"  His  face  looked  as  it  used  to  look 
in  the  cellar,  and  we  disbanded  in  a  hurry. 

I  think  that  Deputy  Dawson  had  another  reason 
than  mercy  for  letting  us  go  without  punishment. 
These  men  were  the  brains  of  that  prison.  Some 
of  them,  as  secretaries,  were  doing  the  real  work  for 
political  incompetents.  Had  they  all  been  reduced 
to  the  stripes,  the  prison  routine  would  have  gone 
to  pieces. 

"I  reckon  none  of  you  fellows  will  mention  this," 
said  the  deputy  as  we  passed  him.    We  didn't.    And 

228 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

next  week  he  turned  over  the  money  to  our  separate 
accounts. 

I  had  been  in  the  post-office,  to  the  best  of  my 
memory,  some  four  or  five  months,  when  Warden 
Darby  gave  me  a  not-unexpected  promotion.  The 
warden's  confidential  clerk,  who  had  served  under 
Coffin  and  knew  more  about  the  prison  than  any 
other  man,  was  pardoned — and  I  got  his  place.  So 
I  became  the  star  convict  among  seventeen  hun- 
dred; none,  except  the  warden  and  deputy,  had 
more  personal  power,  of  the  kind  which  counts  in 
prison,  than  I.  Before  I  took  office  ]Mr,  Darby  and 
I  had  a  little  talk.  "I'm  going  to  make  you  a 
trusty,"  he  said.  "But  I  want  your  word  to  me,  as 
man  to  man,  that  you  will  never  escape." 

"Not  while  you're  in  office,  warden,"  I  said.  "But, 
if  you  ever  go  out,  the  promise  is  off." 

"I  suppose  that  will  take  care  of  itself,"  said 
Warden  Darby.  "All  right.  It  goes.  When  I 
leave  this  prison  is  no  affair  of  mine."  On  those 
terms  I  settled  down  in  his  office  outside  the  great 
stone  wall.  And  I  soon  learned  nearly  as  much  as 
the  warden  himself  knew  about  the  workings,  great 
and  small,  of  the  Ohio  Penitentiary. 

The  job  of  warden  under  a  machine  administra- 
tion is  like  the  job  of  police  commissioner  in  a  big, 
well-districted   city.     No  matter  how  good  his   in- 

229 


BEATING    BACK 

tentions,  he  will  be  beaten  by  the  system.  Coffin, 
under  whose  regime  I  nearly  died  in  solitary,  had 
himself  been  known,  in  his  early  days,  as  the 
"prison-reform  warden."  Darby,  with  his  big,  kind 
heart,  at  once  abolished  or  mitigated  all  the  punish- 
ments. When  he  took  office  he  found  a  steel  cage  in 
the  cellar  for  the  "prison  demons,"  men  supposed 
to  be  incorrigible  fighters  against  discipline.  Now 
I  know  from  experience  that  no  sane  man  is  wholly 
incorrigible.     There's  a  road  to  every  heart. 

Worst  of  the  demons  was  a  man  whom  I  will  call 
Fred.  Through  convict  sources  I  learned  his  story. 
Naturally  morose,  he  had  in  a  fit  of  anger  killed  a 
man  who  foreclosed  a  mortgage  on  his  little  house 
and  tract  of  farm  land.  He  came  to  the  prison  in 
a  fury  of  resentment.  The  guards  started  to  take 
the  temper  out  of  him.  They  knocked  him  down  on 
every  occasion.  It  only  made  him  worse.  He  un- 
derwent whipping,  stringing  up,  and  solitary  con- 
finement. This  put  him  into  such  a  state  of  mind 
that  he  wouldn't  come  out  of  his  cell ;  so  the  guards 
fastened  hooks  on  long  poles  and  jerked  him  out 
as  an  elephant  trainer  jerks  his  elephant.  At  last 
they  dumped  him  into  the  "demon  cage,"  and  there 
from  a  big,  powerful  man  he  wasted  to  a  shadow. 
While  I  was  still  in  the  chaplain's  office  I  told  War- 
den Darby  about  all  this,  and  ventured  the  opinion 

230 


PLANNING    .AIY    COMEBACK 

that  Fred  was  really  a  good  fellow.  Warden  Darby 
had  a  talk  with  him.  He  had  to  coax  Fred  from 
his  cage  to  a  cell  as  they  used  to  coax  the  tigers 
when  we  moved  the  circus.  He  accomplished  it  at 
last.  Then  he  said  to  Fred  squarely:  "H  you  be- 
have 3-ou'll  have  the  same  treatment  as  any  other 
man.     I  have  abolished  those  punishments." 

Fred  accepted  the  terms,  and  became  a  model 
prisoner.  By  tlie  same  process  Mr.  Darby  tamed 
the  rest  of  the  prison  demons,  and  the  steel  cage 
became  a  curiosity. 

Darby  went  on,  giving  the  prisoners  more  just 
privileges.  He  permitted  them  to  wear  the  shirts, 
underwear,  and  hose  which  their  friends  sent  them. 
He  broke  away  from  the  old  prison  idea  that  the 
guards  alone  should  be  heard  in  cellar  trials.  One 
Sunday  morning  he  announced  in  chapel  that  he 
had  instituted  a  change  in  the  system  of  reporting 
prisoners.  Formerly  the  guards  had  proceeded  on 
the  theory  that  he  who  made  the  most  reports  was 
making  the  best  record,  and  so  prisoners  continu- 
ally WQnt  to  the  cellar  on  trivial  or  false  charges. 
Now,  Warden  Darby  said,  he  intended  to  hear  the 
prisoner's  side  of  every  report;  and,  if  the  prisoner 
convinced  him,  he  would  discharge  the  guard.  Im- 
mediately the  reports  fell  away  from  one  hundred 
and  fifty  a  day  to  twelve  or  fifteen.     This  one  re- 

231 


BEATING    BACK 

form  bettered  and  purified  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
the  prison.  Under  his  inspection  the  dining-room 
had  better  service  and  better  food. 

Yet  the  system  beat  him.  He  was  only  a  cog  in 
the  Ohio  political  machine,  dependent  upon  it  for 
his  own  position,  and  liable  to  removal  if  he  defied 
his  bosses.  Although  in  theory  he  had  the  power 
of  removal  and  appointment  over  every  minor  offi- 
cial, in  practice  he  must  accept  about  what  the  ma- 
chine sent  him.  And,  finally,  he  couldn't  beat  the 
contract  system  whereby  certain  gentlemen  were 
given,  at  the  rate  of  thirty  cents  a  day  a  man,  the 
privilege  to  get  all  they  could  out  of  the  convicts. 
The  contractors  complained  that  they  couldn't 
make  men  work  at  the  old  pace  without  punish- 
ments, and  before  I  left  some  of  the  barbarities  of 
the  cellar  had  been  restored.  That  contract  sys- 
tem is  the  curse  of  American  prisons,  the  greatest 
barrier  to  reform. 

Warden  Darby  reached  finally  the  obnoxious  po- 
sition of  a  figurehead,  while  the  contractors,  as  of 
old,  ran  the  prison;  and  this  led  to  his  resignation. 
If  he  could  have  defied  the  contractors  and  used  his 
own  humane  ideas,  he  would  have  made  the  Ohio 
State  Penitentiary  a  model  institution.  I  hope  that 
the  public  will  believe  me  in  this,  as  it  refuses  to  be- 
lieve  most   ex-convicts.      No  man  ever   occupied  a 

232 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

better  position  to  know  all  about  a  prison  than  I 
when  I  was  the  warden's  secretary. 

Now,  in  all  these  later  months  my  friends  on  the 
outside  had  been  pulling  every  string  to  get  me  a 
pardon  or  a  commutation.  My  brother  John  had 
given  the  matter  all  of  his  time  and  most  of  his  for- 
tune. The  irregularity  of  my  conviction  formed 
our  best  argument.  John  secured  affidavits  from 
ten  jurymen  as  to  the  little  transaction  which  influ- 
enced their  verdict.  Others  helped  him,  notably 
our  old  family  friend,  Judge  A.  A.  Ewing.  Yet  I 
was  informed  that  the  Department  of  Justice  at 
Washington  seemed  firm  in  my  case,  and  I  cher- 
ished little  hope. 

One  morning,  as  I  sat  at  work  in  the  warden's 
office,  a  big,  portly  man  entered,  and  stood  looking 
me  over  in  a  negligent,  impersonal  way. 

"Where's   the  warden.*^"  he   asked. 

"He'll  be  back  in  a  few  minutes — sit  down,  Sena- 
tor," I  replied. 

He  laughed,  and  I  noticed  what  his  pictures  could 
never  show — how  much  personality  and  likeable  hu- 
man quality'  he  had  behind  that  powerful  face. 

"How  do  you  know  I  am  a  senator?"  he  asked. 

"From  seeing  your  picture  in  the  Enquirer,"  I 
replied. 

" the  Enquirer,"  said  Senator  Mark 

233 


BEATING    BACK 

Hanna.  "I  never  see  the  dirty  sheet.  I'm  looking 
for  a  prisoner  named  Jennings." 

"I'm  Jennings,"  said  I. 

"A  shrimp  like  you?"  replied  Senator  Hanna. 
*'0h,  no!  You  can't  possibly  be  a  dangerous  des- 
perado from  Indian  Territory." 

The  warden  joined  us  at  about  this  point  in  the 
conversation.  He  and  the  senator  were  old  political 
and  personal  friends.  When  they  had  finished  their 
reunion,  the  senator  said: 

"That  little  man  tells  me  that  his  name  is  Jen- 
nings." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Warden.  "He's  my  confidential 
clerk.  He's  here  in  my  office  because  he  wouldn't 
betray  a  friend."  And  the  warden  said  some  kind 
things  to  my  face. 

"But  I'm  still  surprised,"  said  the  senator,  "that 
a  man  so  insignificantly  small  has  kicked  up  such 
a  racket  in  that  wild  and  woolly  West."  Then  he 
went  on  to  say  that  my  friends  in  Oklahoma,  nota- 
bly Judge  Ewing,  had  called  his  attention  to  my 
case. 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  continued  the  Senator, 
"is  whether  you  were  guilty  of  the  charge  against 
you." 

"No,  sir,"  said  I. 

He  looked  a  little  disappointed.  He  thought, 
234 


PLANNING   MY    COMEBACK 

of  course,  that  I  was  about  to  pose  as  a  persecuted 
man. 

"Not  of  the  charge  on  which  I  was  convicted,'* 
said  I.  "I'm  here  for  robbing  the  United  States 
mail.  I  didn't.  I  held  up  a  train,  blew  the  express 
safe,  and  frisked  the  passengers.  That  mail  didn't 
interest  me." 

The  senator  laughed. 

"You're  a  lawyer,  all  right,"  he  said. 

"It's  more  than  a  fine  distinction,"  I  replied. 
"You  get  about  ten  years  for  robbing  the  express, 
and  life  for  robbing  the  mails."  Then  the  talk 
drifted  westward,  and  I  began  to  tell  him  stories 
of  the  old  long  rider  days.  He'd  never  heard  such 
incidents  first  hand.  Apparently  they  interested 
him.  I  was  talking  for  my  life  now,  and  I  didn't 
fail  to  let  him  know  how  and  why  I  became  a  bandit. 
I  felt  that  I  had  his  sympathies,  so  he  didn't  sur- 
prise me  when  he  turned  to  the  warden,  saying: 

"This  young  man  made  a  mistake.  The  financial 
world  won't  stand  for  his  kind  of  financiering,  and 
yet  it  isn't  so  crude  as  that  which  they  practice 
in  the  effete  East.  Are  you  up  for  a  pardon.?"  he 
added,  turning  to  me. 

I  told  him  what  my  friends  and  my  brother  had 
done  for  me. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet. 

235 


BEATING    BACK 

"It  won't  amount  to  anything,"  he  said,  "so 
long  as  Griggs  is  attorney-general.  It  won't  get 
past  him.  Billy  McKinley  is  the  kindest  man  in  the 
world,  but  he  has  to  take  such  things  through  his 
subordinates.  I'm  going  to  get  the  hide  of  that 
man  Griggs !  Some  day  you  write  to  me  in  Wash- 
ington, and  don't  be  disappointed  if  I  don't  get 
action  at  once.  I'm  a  very  busy  man."  He  looked 
at  me  rather  sharply  before  he  went  on:  "I  want 
to  help  you  to  get  out  of  here  and  succeed  in  some 
legitimate  business." 

"As  for  that.  Senator,"  I  said,  understanding 
what  he  implied,  "I  suppose  I  regret  my  past  more 
than  anyone  else." 

"You'll  make  no  mistake.  Senator,"  put  in  the 
warden. 

So  the  matter  rested,  and  for  the  first  time  I  had 
a  definite,  concrete  hope. 

But  I  didn't  write  to  Senator  Hanna.  I  knew 
that  I  express  myself  best  by  word  of  mouth,  and  I 
knew — pardon  me  for  saying  it — that  I  have  per- 
sonality. I  understood  by  common  report  that 
Mark  Hanna,  when  in  Ohio,  came  often  to  the  peni- 
tentiary for  political  conferences.  Impatient 
though  I  was,  I  determined  to  play  the  long  game, 
and  wait.  I  talked  this  over  with  the  warden,  and 
he  was  of  the  same  opinion. 

236 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

It  was  perhaps  six  months  before  Mark  Hanna 
returned  to  the  prison,  and  gave  me  a  chance  to 
talk  over  my  pardon.  As  I  remember  it,  he  him- 
self introduced  the  subject.  I  told  him  that  I  pre- 
ferred a  commutation  to  five  years.  Besides  the  life 
sentence  for  train  robbing  which  I  was  then  serving, 
five  years  at  Fort  Leavenworth  for  shooting  Bud 
Ledbetter  hung  over  me.  I  took  it  for  granted  that 
these  two  sentences  ran  concurrently.  By  the  time 
I'd  served  five  years  on  my  life  term  I'd  be  clear  of 
them  both,  and  I  preferred  to  stay  in  my  present 
berth  rather  than  take  chances  with  a  new  institu- 
tion. 

After  that  I  saw  Mark  Hanna  quite  frequently. 
"The  Warwick  of  America"  stood  then  at  the  height 
of  liis  power;  he  held  national  politics  in  the  palm 
of  his  hand.  However,  Ohio  politics  gave  him  some 
temporary  trouble,  which  led  to  many  conferences 
in  the  warden's  office.  They  used  to  talk  things 
over  freely  in  my  presence.  I  sat  on  my  stool,  pre- 
tending to  work,  and  listened  with  all  my  ears.  I 
still  consider  those  communications  confidential,  but 
I  suppose  that  few  living  men  know  more  about  the 
side  of  the  Hanna-Foraker  feud  than  I.  Character- 
istically Mark  Hanna  never  failed  to  notice  my 
presence ;  occasionally  he  would  throw  a  word  or 
two  my  way.     To  the  others  I  was  like  the  cat. 

237 


BEATING    BACK 

One  night  they  were  debating  on  a  problem  which 
puzzled  them  a  good  deal.  Suddenly  I  saw  a  per- 
fect solution.  I  turned  impulsively  on  my  stool, 
broke  into  the  conversation,  and  gave  them  my 
opinion.  The  rest  appeared  astonished,  even  a  little 
bored.     But  Mark  Hanna  said: 

"The  little  fellow's  right!"  From  that  time  he 
used  now  and  then  to  ask  my  advice. 

I  had  never  liked  machine  politics.  As  a  free  man 
and  a  county  official,  I  had  fought  "the  system" ; 
to  it  I  attributed  the  miseries  of  our  prison.  But 
a  man  goes  far  to  get  his  liberty.  Moreover,  poli- 
tical scheming  gave  my  mind  something  to  do, 
and,  still  further,  I  liked  Mark  Hanna  person- 
ally. I  disliked  his  trade,  but  I  loved  the  man.  He 
was  human  above  any  other  big  person  I  ever 
knew. 

We  had  in  prison  a  convict  whom  I'll  call  David- 
son. He  belonged  to  an  opposing  political  faction 
which  Hanna  had  crushed.  The  Hanna  men  found 
irregularities  in  Davidson's  conduct  of  public  af- 
fairs, and  he  got  five  years.  When  I  grew  to  know 
him  he  discussed  his  case  with  me.  As  many  Ohio 
people  suspected,  he  was  the  scapegoat  of  his  gang; 
the  more  guilty  men  escaped.  Davidson  had  a 
pretty,  quiet  little  daughter  about  thirteen  years 
old,  who  came  in,  scared  half  to  death,  every  visit- 

238 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

ing  day.     And  once,  when  she  applied  to  me  for  a 
permit,  Hanna  stood  in  the  office. 

"Who's  that.?"  he  asked. 

"Davidson's  daughter,"  I  replied. 

He  followed  her  with  his  eyes. 

*'It's  a  shame  to  have  her  coming  here,"  he  said. 

I  was  always  pleading  the  cause  of  convicts  who 
hadn't  received  a  square  deal,  and  I  took  this  op- 
portunity to  speak  for  Davidson. 

Senator  Hanna  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  me.  He 
was  looking  off  toward  the  door.  And  he  said 
something  about  a  pardon. 

"That  would  be  a  generous  thing  to  do,"  I  said. 
"He's  been  a  political  enemy." 

"For  that,"  said  the  senator,  "he  could  go  hang! 
It's  the  little  girl  there."  He  choked,  and  I  saw 
that  his  eyes  had  filled  with  tears.  Suddenly  he 
started  for  the  telephone,  saying,  "Hold  her  when 
she  comes  back."  He  called  up  the  governor's 
office.  In  as  natural  and  matter-of-fact  a  way  as 
though  he  were  buying  a  collar  he  ordered  a  par- 
don for  Davidson.  "Send  it  over  here  at  once,"  he 
added. 

When  the  little  girl  returned  to  the  gate,  her  eyes 
bleared  from  crying,  Mark  Hanna  engaged  her  in 
conversation.  He  had  her  laughing  when  a  runner 
entered  and  handed  him  an  envelope. 

239 


BEATING    BACK 

"Here's  something  for  you,  my  dear,"  he  said 
after  he  had  opened  it,  "a  pardon  for  your  father." 
It  "was  a  minute  before  she  understood,  but  when  I 
left  them  she  had  thrown  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  they  were  both  crying. 

We  had  so  many  like  Davidson  in  our  prison ! 
Some  were  only  half-guilty  scapegoats ;  some, 
guilty  perhaps  of  other  offenses,  had  been  convicted 
on  trumped-up  evidence  in  order  to  make  police 
reputations ;  and  a  few,  I  am  convinced,  had  never 
seriously  transgressed  the  law.  Now  I  occupied  a 
queer  and  ticklish  position  in  the  warden's  office.  I 
would  not  and  dared  not  betray  the  men ;  yet  neither 
would  I  betray  Warden  Darby,  who  had  done  so 
much  for  me.  My  only  policy  was  to  keep  a  tight 
mouth,  and  play  square  with  both  sides.  I  knew 
of  plots  to  escape,  and,  though  I  gave  them  no  help, 
I  kept  silent.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  had  learned 
of  a  plot  which  involved  the  safety  or  honor  of  Mr. 
Darby,  I  should  have  felt  obliged  to  "snitch."  In 
time,  I  think,  both  officials  and  prisoners  came  to 
understand  my  game. 

One  day  I  had  started  across  the  yard  on  some 
business,  when  the  captain  of  the  guards  ran  after 
me  and  handed  me  a  telegram.  The  silence  of  a  tele- 
gram is  disquieting  to  most  of  us,  I  think ;  and  this 

240 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

was  the  first  I  had  received  in  prison.  I  stood  for 
a  moment  looking  at  it  before  I  got  nerve  to  tear 
it  open. 

"President  McKinley  has  commuted  your  sen- 
tence to  five  years,  with  all  allowances  for  good  con- 
duct," it  read. 

I  wanted  to  shout  the  news  aloud ;  I  wanted  every 
man  in  the  Ohio  Penitentiary  to  know  my  good  for- 
tune. I  saw  the  West  again  and  the  glorious  In- 
dian Territory.  Then  I  was  almost  mastered  by 
another  emotion.  Skeptic  of  skeptics  though  I 
was,  I  had  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  an  over- 
whelming impulse  to  fall  on  my  knees  and  thank 
God.     I  am  glad  now  to  give  testimony  to  that. 

What  I  did  the  rest  of  the  day  I  can't  exactly 
remember.  I  do  know  that  every  guard  and  every 
privileged  prisoner  shook  my  hand  and  congratu- 
lated me.  This,  from  certain  men  who  had  no  hope 
themselves,  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes. 

I  have  said  nothing  about  the  change  in  me, 
which  sent  me  out  of  prison  determined  to  make 
good  and  justify  the  faith  of  Senator  Hanna,  War- 
den Darby,  President  McKinley,  and  my  loyal  fam- 
ily. That  change  is  hard  to  describe.  It  came 
gradually.  Perhaps  the  turning  point  was  that 
morning  when  I  left   the  bolt  works   and  went  to 

241 


BEATING    BACK 

the  state  shop  for  a  first-class  uniform.  But  I  didn't 
know  it  then. 

Before  that  I  had  continued  in  rebellion  against 
society.  The  fourteen  months  in  county  jails,  the 
horrible  first  impressions  of  prison  life,  the  month 
in  solitary,  the  dreary  routine  of  the  bolt  shop,  had 
failed  to  tame  me.  In  fact,  they  only  intensified  my 
rebellion.  I  was  going  the  way  of  Fred,  the  prison 
demon;  only  where  he  took  it  out  in  violence  I 
should  have  used  craft.  Had  some  miracle  released 
me  then,  I  should  probably  have  gathered  my  nerve 
and  tried  to  take  revenge  on  the  human  race.  All 
the  time  I  knew  in  my  heart  I  couldn't  beat  society ; 
that  was  the  valuable  lesson  of  those  horrible  days. 
But  the  thought  only  maddened  me,  and  drove  me 
to  further  rebellion. 

On  top  of  that  came  my  first  experience  with 
Warden  Darby.  He  treated  me  like  a  fellow  man. 
He  gave  me  credit  for  the  good,  as  well  as  the  bad, 
that  was  in  me.  The  feehng  that  I  must  lie  down 
to  society  was  in  process  of  evolution,  and,  after 
Mr.  Darby  lifted  me  from  the  depths,  I  found  that  I 
could  do  it  with  self-respect. 

Perhaps  I  can  put  the  situation  in  another  way. 
Victor  Hugo  has  said:  "I  feel  two  natures  strug- 
gling within  me."  I  worked  that  out  for  myself 
before  I  ever  heard  from  Hugo.     Only  I  believe  that 

242 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

in  me  those  two  natures  are  more  widely  separated 
than  in  most  men.  I  kept  the  better  nature  domi- 
nant until  the  killing  of  my  brother  Ed.  From  then 
on  the  worse  nature  ruled  my  actions.  Now,  with 
my  new  hope,  I  found  the  worse  nature  going  down 
and  the  better  coming  up.  It  didn't  happen  all  at 
once.  I  had  my  bad  days,  when  I  felt  the  yearning 
to  break  loose  and  run  amuck.  But  I  managed  to 
control  these  impulses,  and,  as  time  went  on,  they 
became  weaker  and  less  frequent. 

When  I  told  Senator  Hanna  that  I  intended  to 
make  good  after  I  got  out  I  spoke  sincerely.  I 
had  gone  so  far  then.  But  it  wasn't  until  after  my 
commutation  that  I  thought  out  the  details.  Proba- 
bly I  owe  my  final  plan,  and  my  eventual  com- 
plete reform,  to  the  Ohio  Penitentiary  Club  and  to 
a  friend  whom  I  made  there. 

A  club  in  prison — literally  that !  It  was  the 
queerest  institution  I  ever  knew.  The  boys  had  laid 
the  foundation  before  I  returned  to  first  class,  but 
it  had  its  great  days  during  my  term  in  the  war- 
den's office. 

Certain  convicts  in  responsible  positions,  like  me, 
the  post-office  clerks,  the  commissary  clerk,  and  so 
on,  had  privileges  even  above  the  other  first-class 
men.  Sunday  afternoon  was  an  off  time.  The 
others  must  stay  in  their  cells  after  chapel;  but  we, 

243 


BEATING    BACK 

on  the  theory  that  our  work  demanded  it,  had  the 
run  of  the  institution.  The  guards  winked  at  any 
of  our  infractions  which  didn't  bump  into  the  let- 
ter of  the  law.  They  had  to;  we  knew  all  about 
the  workings  of  the  Ohio  Penitentiary.  I  believe  it 
was  a  burglar,  gone  out  before  I  rejoined  the  first 
class,  who  sprang  the  idea  of  Sunday  dinners.  The 
boys  worked  like  beavers  on  his  plan.  They  got 
some  of  the  expert  burglars  and  counterfeiters — all 
fine  mechanics — to  cut  a  cupboard  in  the  loft  above 
the  construction  office.  Over  this  they  fitted  a  se- 
cret panel.  These  same  mechanics  made  a  gas  stove, 
and  connected  it  with  the  prison  mains.  It  stood 
on  a  shelf,  which  swung  out  and  back  into  the  wall, 
like  a  shelf  of  drawings.  Piece  by  piece,  the  boys 
picked  up  from  the  kitchen,  pantries,  and  dining- 
rooms  a  complete  set  of  dishes,  knives,  forks,  spoons, 
and  pots. 

Every  Sunday  at  the  regular  meeting  the  presi- 
dent appointed  a  dinner  committee.  It  was  their 
duty  to  find  what  supplies  were  needed  for  next 
Sunday  and  to  collect  them.  The  committee 
prowled  through  the  prison  all  the  week,  using  every 
trick  and  device.  Frankly,  they  often  stole  the 
stuff.  Morals  are  the  rules  of  the  game,  and  the 
prison  game  is  decidedly  peculiar.  I  for  one  didn't 
regard    this    quite    as    larceny.      More    often,    we 

244 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBxVCK 

wheedled  the  guards.  For  example,  wc  knew  a 
friendly  guard  in  the  commissary  office,  a  big,  gen- 
erous fellow,  who  had  his  pinching  streaks.  The 
committeeman  would  ask  him  for  a  ham,  say. 

"What  do  you  fellows  suppose  I'm  running  this 
institution  for.?"  he'd  yelL  "A  ham!  Do  you  think 
you're  the  whole  cheese  over  there.?  You'll  have  to 
get  an  order." 

"Oh,  come  now — a  little  ham — what  does  it  mean 
to  you?" 

"Well,  take  your  damn  ham  and  get  out!" 

No  one  liked  to  antagonize  us — we  knew  too  much, 
and  we  handled  too  many  little  privileges  for  guards 
and  convicts  alike.  Yet  often,  as  the  week  went  on, 
we'd  still  find  ourselves  short  of  some  little  thing, 
like  salad  oil  or  cloves  or  garlic.  The  whole  com- 
mittee would  start  out  as  though  this  was  their  one 
object  in  life;  and  their  adventures  brought  many 
a  laugh  next  Sunday.  No  one  can  know  how  much 
this  httle  interest  did  to  lighten  our  hves.  When 
news  went  about  that  we'd  secured  a  roast,  a  tur- 
key, or  some  other  special  dehcacy  for  next  Sun- 
day our  mouths  watered  for  two  days  ahead. 

He  whom  I'm  going  to  call  Bart — my  best  friend 
— beat  everyone  else  as  a  forager.  He  was  a  gen- 
tleman, not  only  by  birth,  but  actually.  Even  in  his 
prison  clothes  this  big,  wise,  silent  man  never  lost 

245 


BEATING    BACK 

his  appearance  of  quiet  dignity.  Bart,  from  his 
position  and  talents,  could  get  more  provisions  in 
a  day  than  all  the  rest  in  a  week.  He  had  made 
slits  in  the  lining  of  his  coat,  and  there  he  carried 
his  plunder.  I  can  see  him  yet,  walking  through 
the  gate,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  his  coat 
bulging  with  a  jNIother  Hubbard  effect.  As  he 
passed  the  patrol  guard,  he  would  cast  one  quiet 
glance,  and  the  guard  would  look  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection. Had  the  gate  closed  on  him  suddenly,  his 
coat  would  have  resembled  the  wreck  of  a  grocery 
wagon.  Once  he  even  brought  in  six  bottles  of  wine. 
Bart  and  a  defaulting  French  cashier,  whom  I'll 
call  Jean,  acted  as  cooks.  They  knew  notliing  of 
cooking  when  they  began,  but  Bart  had  talents  for 
anything,  and  Jean  was  a  Frenchman.  They  worked 
it  all  out  from  books.  Bart  cooked  by  instinct,  and 
Jean  by  weight  and  measure.  Bart  would  measure 
out  a  pinch  of  this  or  that,  and  Jean  would  say 
"Let's  weigh  it."  Bart  would  reply  by  dumping  it 
in,  saying:  "It's  in  the  soup  now."  Jean  liked 
things  high-seasoned,  French  fasliion;  he  and  Bart 
quarreled  pleasantly  all  the  time.  "There's  no 
taste  to  it,"  Jean  would  say.  "All  right,"  Bart 
would  answer,  "wait  until  our  guests  object."  No 
one  ever  did  object  except  an  old,  Southern  bank 
president,  who,  even  in  prison,  kept  up  his  ante-bel- 

246 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

lum  manners.  He  was  a  curious  convict — I  believe  he 
never  realized  he  was  in  prison.  The  president  used 
to  assign,  turn  about,  the  duty  of  setting  the  table 
and  washing  the  dishes — but  never  to  the  old  bank 
president.  He'd  have  smashed  club  property  if  any- 
one had  suggested  this  common  labor.  He  treated 
us  as  his  employees,  and  the  guards  as  his  servants. 
He  criticized  the  cooking  on  principle.  He'd  taste 
the  soup  and  say  to  Bart : 

"This  is  not  quite  right,  sir." 

Then  that  sedate  wag,  Bart,  would  throw  a  glance 
at  Jean,  wink,  and  reply: 

"Sorry.     We  forgot  to  weigh  it." 

Happiness  goes  by  contrasts.  It  hurts  me  still 
to  think  of  the  penitentiary.  To  rake  up  that  pas- 
sage in  my  life  has  given  me  a  terrible  case  of  blues. 
But  I  remember  with  real  pleasure  those  Sunday 
afternoons  when,  after  we'd  finished  with  Bart's 
cooking,  we'd  light  our  fantail  cigars  and  settle 
down  to  smoke  and  talk. 

Bart's  term  was  nearly  over.  We  never  asked 
each  other  personal  questions  in  the  Ohio  Peniten- 
tiary; that  would  have  been  a  most  serious  breach 
of  etiquette.  So  I  had  to  wait  for  years  before  I 
learned  his  story ;  and  I  didn't  get  it  all  from  him, 
either.  Not  to  mince  matters,  he  had  no  business 
among  us.     It  was  characteristic  of  his  real  gentil- 

247 


BEATING    BACK 

ity   that  he   took   an  unfair  deal  like   a  man,    and 
never  opened  his  mouth. 

My  own  term  approached  its  final  year.  And  so, 
on  leisure  evenings  in  my  office,  we  used  to  discuss 
our  future.  Now  and  again,  when  I  told  him  stor- 
ies of  the  trail,  the  old  sense  of  adventure  would 
come  over  me,  and  inwardly  I'd  wonder  if  I 
shouldn't  take  to  the  road  again.  I  never  expressed 
this  to  Bart,  but  he  understood ;  and  he'd  check  me 
with  just  the  right  word  for  the  situation. 

We  knew  by  now  what  society  does  to  ex-con- 
victs. I'd  been  behind  bars  long  enough  to  see  many 
a  man  leave  and  return.  Usually  it  was  the  same 
pattern  story  which  the  boy  life-termer  in  the  trans- 
fer office  told  me  during  my  first  week.  A  man 
would  go  out,  reformed  as  he  thought.  But  the 
police  would  keep  after  him.  Some  job  in  his  own 
line  would  occur  in  his  vicinity.  The  police  would 
take  him  in.  Even  if  he  wasn't  falsely  convicted 
of  that  crime,  he  would  come  out  of  detention  nause- 
ated with  the  injustice  of  things,  and  go  back  to  his 
old  ways.  "What's  the  use.'"'  they  said  to  me  again 
and  again. 

Others  changed  their  names  and  tried  again  in 
new  vicinities.  Then  would  come  exposure.  If 
they  didn't  lose  their  positions  at  once,  they  were 
watched  so  closely  that  it  irritated  them  to  madness. 

U8 


PLANNING    MY    COMEBACK 

A  slip,  like  a  Saturday  night  debauch,  which  might 
be  forgiven*  another  man,  is  not  forgiven  an  ex-con- 
vict. And  always,  for  the  man  who  got  up  in  the 
world,  there  was  blackmail  to  pay — certain  weasels 
make  their  living  by  discovering  criminal  records. 
I  used  to  think,  cynically,  that  every  sentence  to 
the  penitentiary  is  a  life  sentence. 

Bart  and  I  discussed  these  things,  and  I  came  to 
my  resolution. 

"Bart,"  I  said  one  night,  "there's  only  one  legiti- 
mate calling  for  me,  and  that's  law.  I've  ability 
and  training  for  no  other — except  maybe  cow- 
punching,  and  the  range  is  gone.  I'm  too  light 
for  hard  labor,  I  have  no  mechanical  talent,  and  as 
a  business  man  1  was  always  a  poor  fool.  I  pro- 
pose to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns.  I'm  going  back 
to  Oklahoma,  where  my  criminal  record  is  known, 
and  grow  up  with  the  country.  I'm  going  to  tell 
every  new  acquaintance  exactly  who  and  what  I 
have  been.  I'll  manage  somehow  for  a  year.  Then 
I  can  get  my  citizenship  restored  and  hang  out  my 
shingle.  It's  such  a  hard  game  that  my  remarks 
must  sound  to  you  like  a  joke,  but  it's  my  way." 
To  plot  my  future  on  these  lines  became  an  obses- 
sion. I  told  Bart  finally  that  he'd  better  follow 
the  same  plan. 

"I  can't,  Al,"  he  said.     "Perhaps  it's  the  only 
£49 


BEATING    BACK 

•method,  but  I'm  reserved  where  you're  forward,  and 
besides   I'm  too  sensitive." 

Bart  had  mapped  out  his  own  line  of  work.  As 
soon  as  he  left  prison  he  went  at  it  with  a  single 
mind.  He  fought  blindly,  savagely,  with  all  the 
great  spirit  that  was  in  him.  And  he  made  a  great 
success,  so  that  the  best  of  our  nation  both  loved 
and  honored  him.  The  heartache  he  endured  I 
know  as  the  world  did  not.  That,  and  that  alone, 
I  believe,  caused  his  premature  death.  Had  he 
taken  my  advice,  stood  the  humiliation,  mastered  it, 
he  might  be  alive  to-day. 

So  I  worked  along,  always  a  bit  excited  within, 
until  I  could  count  off  on  my  monthly  calendar  the 
days  to  my  freedom.  My  heart  jumped  a  little  at 
times  when  I  thought  of  men,  probably  less  guilty 
than  I,  whom  I  was  leaving  behind.  I  had  no  illu- 
sions about  my  own  case.  I  was  going  out  of  prison 
not  through  my  merits  before  the  law,  but  through  a 
combination  of  luck,  appearance,  a  personality 
which  made  friends,  and  devotion  from  a  loyal  fam- 
ily. The  same  qualities  had  won  me  an  easy  berth — 
if  any  prison  berth  is  easy.  Those  others  had 
neither  luck,  personality,  nor  friends,  and  they 
were  still  there,  eating  out  their  hearts.  Society 
has   set  up   an  institution  where  all  shall  be   equal 

250 


PLANNING   MY    COMEBACK 

in    degradation — and    it    has    failed    even    in    that. 

After  ten  years  I  haven't  yet  formulated  all  my 
ideas  on  prison  reform.  Some  time,  when  I  am  older 
and  less  busy,  I  shall  sit  down,  I  think,  and  try  to 
figure  out  the  problem  for  myself.  Certainly  the 
contract  system  is  all  wrong.  I  believe  nothing 
more  firmly  than  that.  Further,  I  disagree  with 
most  scientific  prison  reformers  on  the  subject  of 
heredity  in  crime.  An  old,  habitual  burglar  swore 
falsely  that  he  had  given  me  a  set  of  saws,  in  order 
that  he  might  bear  in  my  place  the  torments  of  the 
cellar.  Louis,  another  burglar,  risked  all  his  prison 
privileges  when  I  lay  sick  in  the  hospital,  to  get 
me  proper  food.  There  were  loyalty,  generosity^ 
and  self-sacrifice,  beyond  anything  I  ever  knew  out- 
side. 

The  trouble  with  most  habitual  offenders  against 
property  is  their  early  environment.  The  pick- 
pocket from  the  New  York  East  Side  might  have 
been  a  different  man  if  he  had  been  educated  in  dif- 
ferent surroundings.  Once  such  boys  start  wrong, 
the  police  seldom  permit  them  to  continue  right.  So 
it  becomes  a  mental  habit.  Indeed,  in  any  breeding 
ground  of  criminals,  it  is  the  exceptionally  gifted 
boy,  with  nerve,  initiative,  and  superior  keenness, 
who  is  most  likely  to  go  wrong.  For  such  there  is 
no  reformation  in  a  penitentiary.     Take  my  case. 

251 


BEATING    BACK 

I  learned  to  steal  in  prison — I  had  robbed  before, 
but  never  stolen.  Moreover,  to  ox-like  men  of  poor 
early  surroundings  a  penitentiary  is  often  no  great 
punishment.  Many  of  these,  after  the  first  shock, 
are  like  the  hog  who  eats  the  acorns — he  grunts  and 
he  goes  on.  To  sensitive,  high-strung  men,  accus- 
tomed to  comfortable  surroundings,  it  is  supreme 
torment  of  soul  and  body. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  tendency  toward  crimes  of 
violence  may  be  called  hereditary — in  a  sense.  Cer- 
tain men  like  me  are  born  with  a  bad  temper.  When 
I  got  angry,  nothing  in  the  world  could  stop  me. 
Society.?  I  am  society!  That  was  my  old  atti- 
tude when  my  temper  overbalanced  me.  Such  men 
come  into  circumstances  where  the  temper  gets  be- 
yond all  control,  and  they  kill  or  take  to  the  trail. 
These  men,  I  think,  the  prison  generally  reforms. 
They  learn  the  awful  penalty  of  ungoverned  pas- 
sion, and  the  knowledge  helps  them  to  keep  their 
tempers.  Yet,  as  I  have  said  before,  strict  prison 
discipline  would  never  have  cured  me.  It  was  disci- 
pline and  kindness  together. 

Even  then  I  wasn't  entirely  cured,  as  I  shall  show 
later.  They  had  checked  the  main  symptoms,  but 
the  disease  almost  broke  out  in  another  form  before 
I  myself  found  the  proper  medicine. 


CHAPTER  Xn 

THE    SETBACK 

AS  I  reached  the  last  fortnight  of  my  term  in 
the  Ohio  State  Penitentiary,  I  used  to  tear 
off  the  leaves  of  our  office  calendar  with  a 
jerk.  My  imagination  ran  free,  as  I  created  and 
recreated  my  new  world.  At  my  release  I  should 
receive  a  ticket  back  to  Oklahoma  and  five  dollars  in 
money;  on  that  foundation  I  must  begin  to  build  a 
whole  life.  I  could  not  get  my  citizenship  restored 
for  a  year;  after  that  I  would  plunge  into  the  law. 
I  should  encounter  sneers,  coldness,  ostracism;  I 
had  no  illusions  about  that.  But  in  my  state  of 
mind  I  gloried  in  those  obstacles.  I  would  conquer 
them  all;  because  of  them  my  victory  would  be  the 
more  notable. 

Mark  Hanna  had  said  to  me:  "Come  to  Cleve- 
land when  you're  free,  and  I'll  see  about  placing 
you."  Warden  Darby  had  offered  to  lend  me  as 
much  money  as  I  should  need  to  get  my  start.  But 
when  I'm  broke  I  become  the  most  independent  ras- 

253 


BEATING    BACK 

cal  on  earth ;  and  I  brushed  aside  both  those  chances. 
I  had  other  offers  which  I  declined  in  a  spirit  of 
amusement.  Two  or  three  old  professional  burglars 
approached  me  and  whispered  that  I  would  make 
a  great  "outside  man"  for  a  house-breaking 
job.  They  could  give  me  introductions,  they 
said,  to  pals  on  the  outside  who  would  make  me 
rich. 

Finally,  a  week  before  my  term  was  up,  along 
came  a  letter  from  my  brother  John,  inclosing  four 
twenty-dollar  bills.  At  that  time  this  seemed  like 
a  fortune.  It  gave  me  heart  to  face  my  impossible 
task. 

So  the  next  calamity  fell  on  me  like  a  stroke  of 
lightning.  On  the  third  day  before  my  release  date 
I  was  in  the  post  office  talking  to  Billy  Raidler, 
w^hen  the  warden  called  me  aside.  I  caught  a  pe- 
culiar sadness  in  his  face — a  look  which  I  did  not 
interpret  until  he  began  to  speak. 

"I'm  sorry,  Al,"  he  said,  "to  tell  you  what  I  must, 
but  I  think  I'd  better  mention  it  this  morning.  A 
marshal  is  waiting  for  you  in  my  office.  You  must 
leave  for  Fort  Leavenworth  prison  in  an  hour  to 
serve  that  other  sentence." 

I'd  been  a  hopeful  fool.  Lawyer  though  I  was,  I 
had  taken  it  for  granted  that  my  two  sentences  ran 
concurrently.     Here  I  faced  five  more  years  in  one 

254 


THE    SETBACK 

of  the  toughest  American  prisons.     I  shan't  try  to 
tell  how  I  felt. 

As  soon  as  I  controlled  my  crying  and  got  my 
brain  clear  again,  I  realized  that  I  was  going  against 
an  especially  hard  situation.  Convicts  at  Fort 
Leavenworth  had  murdered  some  guards  and  at- 
tempted a  wholesale  escape.  My  brother  Frank, 
himself  serving  a  five-year  term  in  that  prison,  be- 
lieved that  certain  bad  conditions  led  up  to  this 
break.  He  sent  his  facts  through  the  "sewer  route." 
I  got  them  to  our  territorial  delegate,  who  secured 
a  congressional  investigation.  Of  course,  Fort 
Leavenworth  was  whitewashed,  but  the  inquiry 
brought  out  my  services  in  the  affair.  I  knew  that 
every  official  in  Fort  Leavenworth  yearned  for  a 
chance  at  me. 

Warden  Darby  parted  from  mc  with  tears  in  his 
eyes.  "If  you'll  promise  me  not  to  escape  on  the 
road,"  he  said,  "I'll  make  them  take  you  away  like 
any  other  traveler."  I  promised,  though  it  came 
hard.  Why,  I  kept  flunking,  hadn't  Warden 
Darby  given  me  an  advance  tip  and  let  me  escape.'' 
In  such  times  the  mind  gets  warped. 

Mr.  Darby  repeated  my  promise  to  United  States 
Marshal  Fagin,  who  had  come  for  me  and  added: 
"You  can  rely  on  him,  marshal.  I  want  you  to  treat 
him  as  you  would  your  own  son." 

S55 


BEATING    BACK 

And  so,  on  an  hour's  notice,  without  time  to  bid 
my  friends  good-bye,  I  started  for  my  second  prison 
in  a  state  bordering  on  suicidal  mania.  Marshal 
Fagin  kept  his  word.  No  one  would  have  known 
me  for  a  prisoner.*  We  stopped  that  afternoon 
in  Cincinnati,  where  Fagin  went  to  his  office  for  a 
smoke  and  a  talk.  A  big,  bluff  fellow  entered  the 
room,  and  Fagin  introduced  him  as  George  B.  Cox, 
the  Boss.  We  talked  a  little.  He  had  heard  of  me. 
"Why  did  you  take  to  train-robbing.?"  I  remember 
him  asking.  "There's  easier  ways  of  making 
money !" 

Every  hour  I  had  a  chance  for  escape ;  but  only 
once  did  the  temptation  hit  me  hard.  That  was 
when  we  changed  cars  at  St.  Louis.  The  station 
was  crowded ;  constantly  people  came  between  me 
and  the  marshal,  who,  relying  on  my  promise,  paid 
no  special  attention  to  me.  I  could  have  fallen  be- 
hind and  slipped  away.  And  I  all  but  did  it,  before 
my  promise  to  Mr.  Darby  came  into  my  mind.  The 
rest  of  the  way  I  stuck  close  to  the  marshal  for 
fear  of  myself. 

I  was  not   surprised,   upon  my   arrival   at   Fort 

*  He,  too,  however,  has  proclaimed  me  a  liar  in  print,  say- 
ing that  he  did  handcuff  me.  As  it  happens,  I  never  wore  a 
pair  of  handcuffs  in  my  life.  I  came  to  Columbus  in  leg-irons. 
Such  a  contradiction  is  trivial,  but  the  press  of  Ohio  has  made 
much  of  Fagin's  statement. — A.  J.  J. 

256 


THE    SETBACK 

Leavenworth,  to  notice  that  the  prison  band  did  not 
turn  out.  Marshal  Fagin  handed  me  over  to  the 
guard ;  I  went  through  the  same  mechanical  process 
as  on  my  first  day  at  Columbus.  By  now  I  was  an 
expert  prisoner;  I  moved  like  a  trained  dog.  Only 
one  excitement  lightened  my  despair.  Perhaps,  if 
the  prison  authorities  were  merciful  or  forgetful,  I 
might  see  my  brother  Frank — the  one  human  being 
to  whom  I  had  been  closest  all  my  life.  As  they 
registered  me,  dressed  me,  assigned  me  to  a  sewing 
machine  in  the  tailoring  department,  I  kept  glancing 
left  and  right  for  a  glimpse  of  him.  When  they 
started  me  for  a  cell,  my  heart  bounded  with  the 
hope  that  he  might  be  my  cell  mate.  It  nearly 
stopped  when  I  found  that  I  must  sleep  alone. 

I  found  the  Fort  Leavenworth  prison  far  more 
strictly  run  than  the  Ohio  Penitentiarj'.  For  two 
days  I  went  on  learning  to  patch  overalls  in  a  slip- 
shod fashion,  while  I  watched  and  waited.  Nothing 
happened;  Frank  might  have  been  released  for  all 
I  could  see.  On  the  third  morning  my  patience 
broke,  and  I  took  the  bull  by  the  horns.  I  got  per- 
mission to  send  a  note  to  the  warden,  asking  for  an 
interview.     To  my  surprise,  he  granted  the  request. 

When  I  entered  his  office  he  was  writing.  He  knew 
that  I  was  there,  I  think ;  but  he  kept  me  waiting 
at  attention,  with  folded  arms,  until  he  had  finished. 

257 


BEATING    BACK 

Finally  he  turned  round.  His  eyes  were  half  closed, 
and  his  fingers  clutching.  It  carried  me  back  to  my 
circus  days,  when  I  used  to  watch  the  tigers  work- 
ing up  to  leap  against  the  bars. 

"What  do  you  want.'"'  he  asked. 

"Warden,"  I  said,  "I  want  to  see  my  brother 
Frank." 

He  looked  at  me  a  long  time  before  he  replied: 
"You've  just  got  here,  and  already  you're  asking 
favors." 

Then  I  stifled  my  feeling  of  pride,  and  pleaded 
with  him.  I  told  him  how  much  Frank  and  I  had 
meant  to  each  other.  I  explained  that  we  had  been 
separated  for  four  years.  I  promised  that,  if  he 
would  grant  this  favor,  I  would  never  ask  another, 
and  would  live  up  conscientiously  to  the  rules. 

"The  prisoners  will  be  turned  out  on  the  Fourth 
of  July.  Perhaps  you  will  have  a  chance  then,"  he 
said.    He  dismissed  me  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

The  Fourth  of  July  was  nearly  a  month  away, 
and  as  I  settled  down  again  to  my  machine  the  iron 
sank  a  little  deeper  into  my  soul.  Though  I  didn't 
realize  it  then,  my  conduct  of  this  interview  proved 
how  much  the  prison  had  done  to  tame  me.  Had  I 
met  such  treatment  when  I  first  entered  the  Ohio 
Penitentiary  I  should  have  lost  my  temper  and 
sprung  at  the  warden's  throat,  come  what  might. 

258 


THE    SETBACK 

That  evening,  at  the  bugle  call  for  company  for- 
mation, I  fell  in  with  the  rest  of  the  tailors  prepara- 
tory to  marching  to  supper.  I  had  found  the  rules 
much  more  strict  over  all  the  prisoners  at  Fort 
Leavenworth  than  even  among  the  working  prison- 
ers at  Columbus.  A  depression  sat  on  the  men. 
You  read  it  in  their  downcast  looks  and  their  strict 
obedience  to  the  rules.  Everywhere  you  saw  the 
workings  of  the  "snitch"  system,  by  which  men  re- 
ceived promotion  and  small  favors  for  informing  on 
their  fellow  convicts.  The  guards  appeared  very 
reticent  and  watchful.  I  had  a  feeling  that  they 
feared  the  warden  more  than  the  prisoners. 

We  halted  outside,  and  I  stood,  my  eyes  fixed, 
thinking,  as  I  had  been  thinking  all  day,  of  my 
pressing  problem.  The  big  gates  before  me  sud- 
denly opened,  and  a  body  of  perhaps  three  hundred 
convicts,  dressed  in  old  blue  overalls  and  wide  straw 
hats,  marched  toward  us,  eight  abreast.  This  was 
the  construction  gang,  engaged  in  building  the  new 
prison.  My  eyes  traveled  toward  them,  but  I 
watched  them  without  much  hope  or  curiosity. 

Suddenly  I  had  a  shock  which  ran  over  every 
nerve  in  my  body.     There  was  Frank ! 

Even  in  his  disgraceful  uniform  I  recognized  his 
swinging,  athletic  gait.  The  prison  hadn't  bowed 
his  fine,  erect  shoulders.     He  alone  of  all  the  com- 

259 


BEATING    BACK 

pany  \ras  glancing  to  right  and  left,  inspecting  the 
lines  drawn  up  on  the  sidewalk.  He  had  approached 
within  forty  yards  when  our  eyes  met.  I  forgot  my 
surroundings ;  I  saw  nothing  in  the  world  but  my 
brother. 

"Hello,  there,  Frank !"  I  called ;  and  I  should  have 
done  it  even  if  I  knew  that  my  voice  would  cave  in 
the  whole  prison. 

The  prisoner  behind  me  gave  my  back  a  poke.  In 
the  low,  suppressed  convict  tone  he  said : 

"My  God !  Don't  do  that !  They'll  send  you  to 
the  hole!"  Why  I  wasn't  hauled  out  and  reported 
at  once  I  don't  know  yet. 

But  I  didn't  think  of  it  then.  My  mind  was  on 
Frank.  And  there  followed  the  prettiest  maneuver 
I  ever  saw.  Swiftly  and  suddenly  Frank  dropped 
back  and  exchanged  places  with  the  corresponding 
man  in  the  next  rank  behind  him.  A  second  more — 
and  he  did  it  again.  No  man  in  the  line  seemed 
to  be  paying  any  attention  to  either  of  us;  yet, 
whenever  Frank  fell  back,  the  other  man  slipped  into 
place  as  though  he  had  been  drilled  in  that  very  ac- 
tion for  a  year.  The  maneuver  was  kept  up,  si- 
lently, systematically,  and  so  deftly  that  no  one  who 
wasn't  watching  Frank,  and  Frank  alone,  would 
have  noticed  even  a  flutter  in  the  lines.  Frank  had 
dropped  back  four  or  five  ranks  before  I  saw  just 

260 


THE    SETBACK 

what  they  were  doing.  The  construction  gang  re- 
membered exactly  where  their  line  always  halted,  and 
they  were  taking  a  chance  with  "the  hole"  in  order 
to  bring  Frank  and  me  together.  Sure  enough, 
when  they  halted,  my  brother  stood  within  three 
feet  of  me. 

"How  are  you,  old  Sox!"  said  Frank. 

I  choked  when  I  tried  to  speak — he  had  changed 
so  much.  He  was  thin  and  lined  and  sunburned.  His 
fine,  strong  hands  were  rough  and  blistered.  I 
should  have  liked,  at  that  moment,  to  be  at  the  head 
of  a  regiment  armed  with  Krag-Jorgensens  loaded 
to  the  muzzle  with  brickbats.  I  should  have  swept 
the  Fort  Leavenworth  Penitentiary  off  the  face  of 
this  earth. 

I  got  my  tongue  in  time,  and,  while  we  waited  in 
line,  we  talked  from  the  corners  of  our  mouths — 
only  commonplaces.  Our  hearts  were  too  full  for 
anything  else.  But  Frank  did  give  me  some  earnest 
advice. 

"They've  got  it  in  for  you,"  he  said.  "There  are 
some  mean  men  here.  Be  awful  careful,  and  trust 
no  one."  Just  then  came  the  order  to  march,  and 
for  a  month  I  saw  no  more  of  him  than  a  distant 
glimpse. 

The  Fourth  of  July  arrived  at  last.  Working 
silently  at  my  machine,  afraid  even  to  whisper  for 

261 


BEATING    BACK 

fear  of  spoiling  my  chance,  I  counted  off  the  days. 
After  dinner  of  the  Fourth  they  turned  us  out  into 
the  yard,  bidding  us  stand  in  line  that  we  might  lis- 
ten to  an  oration  on  Liberty,  see  the  flag  of  Freedom 
wave,  and  hear  the  band  play  the  Star  Spangled 
Banner.  The  guards  permitted  a  little  moving 
about,  and  so  I  found  Bud  and  Bill.  After  our  re- 
union we  began  a  quiet  search  for  Frank.  I  couldn't 
see  him  anywhere.  Just  then  the  band  marched  by 
to  the  platform,  tooting  full  strength.  There  was 
Frank,  playing  the  cornet,  and  playing  it  poorly — 
I  could  hear  him  drag  a  note  behind  the  others.  He 
had  a  look  on  his  face  which  Fd  seen  a  few  times 
before  when  he  was  in  desperate  straits.  He  passed 
on,  and  I  glanced  about  me,  wondering  what  it  all 
meant.    Bud  was  standing  beside  me. 

"You  see,  don't  you?"  he  said.  "It's  one  of  their 
tricks.  They've  put  him  in  the  band  to-day  so  that 
you  won't  meet." 

I  believe  that  never  in  my  life  did  the  desire  to 
kill  come  over  me  so  strongly  as  in  that  moment. 
But  I  was  learning  my  lesson.  I  put  it  down,  though 
Bud  says  that  my  face  looked  like  death.  When  I 
had  mastered  myself  I  crawled  and  dodged,  stage  by 
stage,  down  the  line  toward  the  warden.  He  stood 
talking  to  the  chaplain.  Trying  to  keep  down  my 
hatred  and  grief,  I  said : 

262 


THE    SETBACK 

"Warden,  you  told  me  I  might  see  Frank  to-day.'* 

He  appeared  not  to  hear  me.  I  repeated  my 
words.  Still  he  ignored  me.  I  pushed  round,  stood 
face  to  face  with  him,  and  repeated  them  again.  I 
felt  by  now  as  though  all  the  blood  had  left  my  body. 
Never  in  my  life  had  I  held  myself  under  such 
restraint. 

He  couldn't  ignore  me  this  time.  In  a  kind  of  a 
purring  whisper,  he  said : 

"Your  brother  has  been  put  in  the  band.  I  have 
tried  to  favor  him  to-day."  And  he  walked  away. 
The  irony  of  that  was  awful. 

Alone  in  my  cell,  the  rest  of  that  day,  I  seemed 
to  forget  the  lessons  of  self-control  I  had  learned 
at  Columbus. 

The  days  now  became  a  monotonous  grind.  I 
bore  them  better  than  I  had  such  times  in  the  bolt 
shop  at  Columbus.  I  was  growing  deadened  and 
inured. 

When  I  entered  Fort  Leavenworth,  father  and 
John  employed  Sebrec  &  Price,  of  Kansas  City,  to 
apply  for  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus,  setting  forth 
that  my  Fort  Leavenworth  sentence  should  have 
run  concurrently  with  my  life  term  in  the  Ohio  Peni- 
tentiary. The  two  sentences  had  been  imposed  in 
different  jurisdictions.  This  raised  a  new  point  of 
law.     Judge  Amos  Thayer  took  up  the  matter  in 

263 


BEATING    BACK 

Chambers,  and  reserved  decision.  I  waited  and 
waited,  but  the  decision  didn't  come.  And  I  had 
lived  through  too  much  prison  life  by  now,  to  stake 
my  reason  on  any  one  hope. 

As  I  expected,  strict  confinement  and  factory 
work  told  on  my  health,  as  it  had  at  Columbus.  My 
tissues  began  to  waste,  my  digestion  to  go  bad. 
Moreover,  this  was  a  prison  of  the  Middle  Ages.  In- 
stead of  confirming  me  in  my  intention  to  reform,  the 
strict,  almost  savage,  regime  drove  me  backward, 
brought  up  again  the  worse  man  in  me.  Were  it 
not  that  I  remember  little  flashes  of  mercy  from 
Deputy  Warden  Lemon,  I  should  feel  like  cursing 
that  place  forever. 

One  morning,  two  or  three  months  later,  I  was 
called  down  to  the  deputy's  office.  As  usual,  I  didn't 
know  whether  I  was  going  to  be  hanged  or  turned 
loose. 

"I've  had  to  be  very  careful  about  you  and 
Frank,"  said  the  deputy ;  "I've  done  more  for  Frank 
than  almost  any  man  here.  He  had  his  chance,  and 
got  into  trouble.  He's  too  toplofty  for  this  place — 
he  won't  humble  himself  enough.  Certain  persons 
here  hate  him  and" — at  this  point  he  smiled — "they 
don't  care  much  for  you.  But  I'm  going  to  do 
something  for  you  boys,  because  I  like  you  and  have 
the  greatest  admiration  for  your  dear  old  father. 

264 


THE    SETBACK 

I've  fixed  it  to  bunk  you  together  in  the  lower  cell 
block." 

I  was  going  to  see  Frank — to  live  with  him !  Only 
an  order  of  release  could  have  made  me  feel  hap- 
pier. 

That  night  Frank  and  I  sat  up  for  hours  in  the 
dark,  whispering  like  two  girls.  We  were  hysteri- 
cally cheerful,  I  remember;  we  had  to  stifle  our 
laughs  and  giggles  by  stuffing  blankets  into  our 
mouths. 

We  had  all  the  greater  need  for  care,  because  a 
stationary  guard  post  stood  just  outside  our  door. 
The  regular  guard  was  an  old  Austrian  who  had 
served  twenty  years  in  the  United  States  army.  He 
knew  nothing  except  obedience.  Whenever  at  any 
time  thereafter  Frank  and  I  forgot  ourselves  and 
laughed  aloud,  he'd  rush  at  the  grating,  shake  it, 
and  command  us  to  shut  up.  Of  course,  we  resented 
him,  as  human  nature  always  resents  restraint ;  and 
finally  I  invented  a  system  to  annoy  him.  All  Sun- 
day afternoon  we  spent  locked  in  our  cells,  our 
guard  just  outside.  Without  saying  a  word,  I'd  go 
to  the  bars,  fix  my  gaze  on  the  Austrian,  and  shut 
one  eye.  In  no  time  he'd  begin  to  fidget  like  a  man 
with  a  fly  on  his  nose.  He'd  sit  down  and  try  and 
look  away,  but  he  couldn't.  That  one  fixed  eye 
would  draw  his  head  round  like  a  magnet.     Then 

265 


BEATING    BACK 

FrariK  would   roll   on  his  bunk,   shaking  with   sup- 
pressed laughter. 

The  guard  could  contain  himself  only  so  long. 
He'd  always  end  by  rushing  to  the  bars,  growling: 

"What  the  hell  are  you  looking  at  me  for?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Guard;  I  didn't  even  know 
you  were  there,"  I'd  answer. 

"You  did!"  he'd  reply.  "Your  eye  was  on  me  all 
the  time." 

"Excuse  me,  but  I'm  careful  what  I  do  with  my 
eyes,"  I'd  say. 

I  didn't  really  understand  how  much  I  was  tor- 
menting him,  until  one  evening  Deputy  Lemon  came 
to  our  cell  door. 

"What  are  you  doing  to  that  guard?"  he  asked. 
"He's  always  been  contented,  but  now  he  wants  a 
transfer  on  account  of  you  fellows." 

I  told  him.     Mr.  Lemon  laughed  uproariously. 

"But  please  stop  it,"  he  said.  "He's  one  of  my 
dependable  men,  and  you'll  have  him  doing  the  Dutch 
act." 

We  had  all  kinds  of  regrets,  as  well  as  all  kinds 
of  jokes,  Frank  and  I.  Our  conversation  ran  from 
the  heights  to  the  depths.  My  determination  to 
make  good,  which  had  nearly  died  out  during  my 
first  month  at  Fort  Leavenworth,  revived  in  me — 
especially  since  I  found  Frank  thinking  along  simi- 

^66 


THE    SETBACK 

lar  lines.  If  you  remember,  he  never  liked  the  long- 
rider  game  as  I  did.  He  had  followed  it  because  of 
circumstances  and  his  loyalty  to  me.  So  he  had 
no  such  distance  to  travel  as  I  in  order  to  reach 
reformation. 

However,  his  presence,  and  our  chatter  of  old 
days,  brought  a  new,  special  horror  into  prison  life. 
Ever  since  I  can  remember,  my  active,  restless  brain 
has  kept  going  by  night  as  well  as  day.  In  my 
youth  I  talked  and  walked  in  my  sleep,  and  I  still 
dream  with  the  greatest  vividness.  Now,  I  began 
nightly  to  dream  of  freedom.  I  was  out  "in  society," 
talking  with  pretty,  attractive  women.  Frank  and 
I  were  rowing  down  the  Ohio,  boys  again.  I  was 
on  the  range  with  Jim  Stanton,  I  was  joking  and 
laughing  around  the  courtroom  door  at  El  Reno. 
Then  a  heavy  gong  would  ring.  I'd  awake  to  the 
musty,  dreary  chill  of  morning  in  prison.  I  must 
hurry  into  my  clothes  and  stand  at  the  cell  door 
with  two  fingers  through  the  bars,  while  the  guard 
counted  us.  I  must  march  out  into  the  deathly-still 
corridors  and  join  a  line  of  gray,  pallid  men,  all 
silent,  all  deep  in  their  early-morning  depression.  I 
must  hurry  down  a  breakfast  of  eternal  bread,  mo- 
lasses, and  near-coffee ;  before  the  light  was  clear, 
I  must  be  huddled  over  my  machine.  I  used  to  wish 
that  there  was  a  medicine  to  stop  dreams. 

267 


BEATING    BACK 

I  grew  weaker  and  weaker.  When  our  machines 
stopped,  awaiting  a  new  job,  we  were  supposed  to 
sit  erect,  our  arms  folded.  But  sometimes,  in  spite 
of  the  rules,  I  would  lean  forward,  my  head  in  my 
hands. 

On  the  morning  which  I  shall  always  remember 
I  sat  thus,  in  a  black  state  of  melancholy.  Sud- 
denly one  of  my  old  intuitions  made  me  feel  a  pair 
of  eyes  boring  into  my  back.  I  jerked  upright  to 
position.  It  was  the  deputy!  From  the  corner  of 
my  eye  I  saw  the  other  prisoners  working  fast,  their 
noses  down  to  their  machines.  No  hawk  ever  struck 
more  terror  to  a  brood  of  chickens.  And  he,  the 
judge  and  jury  of  the  prison,  had  caught  me  break- 
ing a  rule ! 

"Get  your  cap  and  come,"  he  said.  I  knew  in- 
stinctively that  every  prisoner  was  pitying  me. 
They  thought,  and  I  thought,  that  this  meant  the 
hole. 

Outside,  he  turned  to  me. 

"Are  you  prepared  for  a  little  of  the  worst  news 
you  ever  heard  in  your  life?"  he  asked. 

It  was  a  sickening  blow.  I  thought  of  Father, 
John,  Mary,  even  Frank.     Had  he  done  anything? 

He  hated  one  guard — had  he 

"I  have  stood  many  hard  blows."  I  remember 
beginning,  before  I  lost  control  and  shouted: 

268 


THE    SETBACK 

"Quick !" 

"You  arc  ^oin^  to  be  released,"  he  said.  For  a 
second,  I  hated  him  with  all  the  fury  in  my  nature, 
I  didn't  believe  him.  I  thought  he  was  playing  with 
me,  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse.  But  he  put  out 
his  hand. 

"My  boy,  I'm  glad  of  it  for  your  sake  and  j'our 
dear  old  father's,"  he  said.  "The  judge  has  decided 
the  habeas  corpus  proceedings  in  your  favor."  His 
method  of  breaking  the  news  was  only  awkward  tact, 
and  perfectly  well  meant.* 

It  didn't  overwhelm  me  with  the  same  rush  of  hap- 
piness as  my  original  commutation  at  Columbus. 
You  feel  such  emotion  only  once  in  a  lifetime.  But 
I  did  have  an  impulse  to  run  through  the  prison, 
shouting  the  news,  until  another  thought  turned  me 
sick.  I  must  leave  Frank  there !  Sentenced  long 
after  I  went  in,  he  had  received  less  good-conduct 
allowance;  he  had  still  more  than  a  year  to  serve. 
No  word  of  mine  can  express  how  I  felt.  He,  too, 
was  in  bad  health.  At  that  moment  I  would  have 
given  up  all  my  prospects — I  owned  nothing  else — 
to  exchange  places  with  him. 

When  they  had  put  me  back  into  the  decent  suit 
which  I  wore  from  Columbus,  and  taken  me  to  the 

*The  citation  in  this  case  is  118  Federal  Reporter,  page  479, 
in  re  Jennings.     It  is  a  governing  decision. 

269 


BEATING    BACK 

deputy's  office,  I  found  that  I   must  wait  an  hour 
for  the  official  notification  to  arrive. 

"May  I  talk  with  ^rank?"  I  asked,  when  I  learned 
this.  It  was  a  rainy  morning,  as  it  happened;  and 
the  construction  gang  with  which  Frank  worked  had 
been  locked  in  their  cells. 

"I've  been  told  not  to  let  you  see  your  brother," 
replied  the  deputy. 

He  didn't  have  to   say  who'd  told  him. 

"But,"  he  continued,  in  a  low,  ofF-hand  tone, 
"haven't  you  left  something  in  your  cell  that  you 
need.?" 

"Yes !"  I  replied  quickly. 

"Then  the  guard  will  take  you  down,"  he  said. 

Frank  was  asleep.  I  woke  him  up  by  shaking 
the  bars.  But  when  I  tried  to  speak  I  failed  abso- 
lutely and  miserably  to  say  a  word.  His  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  my  citizen's  clothes — and  he  knew. 

"I'm  sorry,  Frank,"  I  managed  to  say.  "I'd 
rather  stay  with  you."  He  was  about  as  tongue-tied 
as  I,  but  from  another  cause.  Reaching  two  fingers 
through  the  bars,  he  said: 

"Old  Sox,  let  it  be  straight  from  now  on !  You'll 
meet  the  damnedest  temptations  of  your  life.  You've 
got  an  awful  fight  in  front  of  you.  Remember  Dad 
and  Mary  and  John,  and  let's  get  back  where  we 
belong." 

270 


THE    SETBACK 

"I'm  for  that,  Frank,"  I  said.  And  that  was  all 
I  could  say,  for  the  guard  pulled  me  along.  I've 
looked  into  the  faces  of  dead  comrades,  and  into 
open  graves,  but  I've  never  known  such  a  moment 
as  that. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

WHEN  the  gates  of  the  Fort  Leavenworth 
Penitentiary  clanged  behind  me,  and  I 
stood  in  the  open  air,  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do.  I  felt  like  a  man  alone  in  the  middle  of  the 
Sahara  desert.  A  voice  at  my  side  called  me  to 
attention.  There  stood  a  guard  whom  I  had  dis- 
liked above  any  other  man  of  his  rank  in  Fort  Leav- 
enworth. 

"I'm  going  down  to  the  depot  with  you,"  he  said. 
Even  at  the  gate  of  the  penitentiary  they  don't  leave 
you  quite  free — the  guards  see  you  aboard  the  train. 
The  presence  of  this  man  furnished  a  splendid 
counter-irritant;  and  my  first  positive  act,  upon 
leaving  prison  for  good,  showed  that  the  worse  man 
in  me  was  still  alive. 

We  sat  on  the  platform,  waiting  for  the  train.  I 
had  asked,  in  my  bewilderment,  for  a  ticket  to  Chi- 
cago— the  surprise  gave  me  no  time  to  formulate 
my  plans.     I  had  the  ticket  and  five  dollars  in  my 

272 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

pocket,  and  all  my  possessions  in  a  newspaper  bun- 
dle under  my  arm.  The  guard  began  to  annoy  me 
by  his  presence.  I  was  free.  Why  should  I  drag 
the  prison  with  me.^  The  train  whistled  in  the  dis- 
tance.    I  turned  to  him. 

"I  shan't  detain  you  any  longer,"  I  said  in  the 
most  superior  manner  I  knew.  The  sarcasm  didn't 
reach  him. 

"I'm  going  to  see  you  on  that  train,"  he  replied. 

I  walked  toward  him.  He  was  armed  and  I  wasn't, 
but  that  made  no  difference  to  me  then. 

"You  cur,"  I  said,  "get  out  of  here  or  I'll  strangle 
you."  He  retreated  four  or  five  paces,  went  to  his 
revolver,  turned  and  walked  away. 

So,  instead  of  leaving  prison,  as  I  had  expected, 
with  a  fine  enthusiasm  for  reform,  I  left  it  torn  with 
emotion,  sodden  with  anger,  hating  the  world.  My 
experience  at  Fort  Leavenworth  had  dulled  my  reso- 
lution, formed  at  Columbus,  to  face  things  fairly  and 
beat  the  game — dulled  it  but  not  destroyed  it.  I 
still  intended  to  go  back  into  the  law  and  make  good. 
On  the  train  I  had  time  to  formulate  my  immediate 
plans.  My  father,  now  seventy-five  years  old  and 
ill  of  a  mortal  chronic  disease,  lived  in  Slater,  Mo. 
I  would  drop  off  at  Kansas  City,  "scalp"  the  re- 
mainder of  my  ticket,  and  visit  him.  After  that  I 
would  go  to  Lawton,  Oklahoma,  where  John  was  in 

273 


BEATING    BACK 

practice.  This  was  a  new  town,  and  it  promised 
well.  Of  immediate  funds  I  could  count  only  my 
five  dollars  and  the  "draw-back"  on  my  ticket;  for, 
when  I  entered  Fort  Leavenworth,  I  had  returned 
John's  eighty  dollars. 

I  had  several  acquaintances  in  Kansas  City,  but 
only  one  whom  I  cared  to  see  just  then — an  old 
Quantrill  guerilla  who  kept  a  saloon  near  the  Junc- 
tion, Hungry  for  companionship,  a  little  afraid 
of  the  world,  I  went  to  him.  I  opened  my  campaign 
by  telling  him  that  I  had  just  been  released  from 
prison.  He  didn't  appear  cordial ;  with  scarcely  a 
word  to  me,  he  went  to  the  telephone  and  did  some 
talking  in  a  low  voice.  Thinking  that  he  had  per- 
haps called  up  the  police,  I  started  to  go.  But  he 
stopped  me  and  held  me  in  conversation,  until  four 
men  came  running  down  the  steps — two  burglars 
and  two  pickpockets  who  had  served  with  me  at 
Columbus.  They  wrung  my  hand,  they  danced  round 
me  Indian  fashion.  When  we  had  finished  our  jubi- 
lee, we  sat  down  and  gossiped  like  women  at  a  sew- 
ing circle. 

The  older  and  more  expert  of  the  two  burglars 
wanted  to  know  what  I  had  in  prospect. 

"Nothing,"  I  said,  truly. 

Immediately  he  proposed  that  I  throw  in  with 
him  and  make  a  trip  to  the  Southwest. 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

"I've  got  one  or  two  good  clean-ups  staked  out," 
he  said.  "Tlion  we'll  go  on  to  the  Coast."  I  only 
laughed.  I  asked  them  if  they  were  on  the  dodge, 
or  planning  some  job  in  Kansas  City.  That  ques- 
tion was  a  necessary  precaution.  I  couldn't  afford, 
on  my  first  day  out,  to  be  taken  up  by  the  police. 
They  assured  me  that  they  were  only  "resting"  in 
Kansas  City;  they  had  reported  at  poHce  head- 
quarters. Before  we  went  to  dinner,  I  remember, 
they  asked  me  again  if  I  didn't  want  a  hand  in  a 
job.  Then  I  told  them  plainly  that  I  intended  to 
go  square  if  I  starved.  At  that  they  shook  hands 
and  said  it  was  the  best  thing  to  do. 

"If  you've  got  the  nerve,"  said  one  of  them.  He 
had  the  nerve  to  face  guns  and  policemen  and  pris- 
ons ;  but  he  appreciated  that  for  an  ex-convict  to 
live  on  the  square  takes  the  finest  nerve  of  all. 

After  dinner,  they  proposed  a  visit  to  a  certain 
"gun  joint,"  and  for  the  love  of  companionship  I 
went  with  them.  The  place  was  full  of  crooks. 
Presently  a  city  detective  entered,  shaking  hands 
and  making  himself  agreeable.  He  approached  our 
crowd.  Three  of  my  companions  treated  him  cor- 
dially enough,  but  one  of  the  burglars  refused  to 
shake  hands. 

When  the  detective  had  gone,  the  proprietor  of 
the  place  turned  to  the  burglar  and  said: 

275 


BEATING    BACK 

'T,arry,  you  acted  like  a  Rube." 

"I  don't  care,"  replied  Larry.  "You  can  go  on 
fooling  with  those  damn  rats  if  you  want  to.  I 
know  3-ou've  got  him  squared,  but  none  of  my  money 
goes  to  him.  The  only  thing  he'll  get  from  me  is 
some  hot  lead." 

"Cut  out  that  talk  in  this  joint,"  said  the  pro- 
prietor. 

"Come  on,  boys — all  these  places  belong  to  cop- 
pers," said  Larry.  My  companions  told  me,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  that  a  city  detective  held  a  half  in- 
terest in  that  very  saloon. 

I  trailed  round  with  them  all  the  evening,  drink- 
ing only  an  occasional  glass  of  beer,  while  one  or 
two  of  the  others  grew  pretty  mellow.  As  we  parted, 
Larry  said: 

"Al,  we'd  like  to  slip  something  to  you,  but  we're 
all  on  shorts  just  now.  Anyhow,  if  you'll  go  to 
the  place  at  the  Junction  in  the  morning,  you'll  find 
a  century  note  waiting  for  you."  I  thanked  him; 
but,  when  I  got  up  next  morning,  I  determined  to 
keep  away  from  the  place  at  the  Junction.  I  wanted 
no  such  money,  and  yet  I  feared  the  temptation  of  a 
whole  hundred  dollars. 

I  "scalped"  the  rest  of  my  ticket  and  went  on  to 
see  my  father.  We  kept  the  emotional  out  of  our 
visit,  though  sometimes  it  almost  choked  us.     He 

276 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

never  reproached  me;  and  he  seemed  happy  to  know 
that  I  intended  to  resume  my  law  practice.  He  had 
seen  strange  things  in  his  long  life;  nothing,  I 
think,  appealed  to  him  as  impossible.  So  he  never 
seemed  to  realize,  as  I  did,  the  fight  which  I  was 
facing. 

As  I  left  him,  he  asked  me  if  I  needed  money.  I 
told  him  that  I  had  resources  for  some  time  to  come. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  when  I  scoured  my  pockets  on 
the  station  platform  at  Kansas  City,  I  counted,  as 
I  remember,  about  two  dollars.  While  I  stood  won- 
dering how  to  proceed  next  I  was  hailed  by  an  old 
friend — a  railroad  man  running  between  Kansas 
City  and  Oklahoma.  He  fell  on  my  neck.  When  I 
explained  my  fix  he  said  that  he  was  going  out  on 
the  next  through  train.  If  I'd  get  past  the  ticket- 
gate,  he'd  see  that  the  conductor  let  me  ride  to 
Oklahoma.  Perhaps  the  proposition  wasn't  quite 
honest,  but  as  I  entered  the  station  through  the 
yards  and  sneaked  past  the  porter  into  the  observa- 
tion car  I  didn't  once  think  of  that  aspect  of  the 
situation. 

When  the  train  started,  I  searched  for  my  friend. 
He  was  nowhere  in  sight.  Finally,  I  inquired  for 
him  of  a  brakeman,  who  informed  me  that  my  friend, 
at  the  last  moment,  had  received  emergency  orders 
to  go  out  on  another  run.    There  I  was,  a  fortnight 

277 


BEATING    BACK 

out  of  jail,  and  already  in  the  position  of  a  law- 
breaker. 

I  sat  down  in  the  observation  car,  and  waited 
with  my  heart  in  my  mouth  for  the  conductor.  When 
he  came  along,  I  searched  ostentatiously  for  my 
ticlret. 

"I  must  have  left  it  in  my  overcoat,"  I  said.  And 
I  started  forward,  as  though  to  get  it.  I  hadn't  any 
overcoat — any  luggage  at  all  except  a  little  grip. 
The  conductor  called  my  bluff  by  following  me.  I 
saw  that  the  game  was  up;  and  in  the  vestibule  I 
turned  on  him. 

"Conductor,"  I  said,  "I  haven't  any  ticket.  A 
railroad  friend  on  this  run  was  to  see  me  through, 
but  I  guess  he  didn't  come  aboard.  If  you  have  to 
take  any  action,  put  me  off  at  a  station,  but  don't 
arrest  me.  You  see,  I'm  an  ex-convict,  going  home 
from  prison.     My  name's  Al  Jennings." 

I  thought  he  was  going  to  hit  me ;  and  I  struck  a 
position  of  self-defense.  But  he  was  only  trying  to 
put  his  arm  round  my  neck. 

"Are  you  Al  Jennings?"  he  said.  "Well,  well! 
I'm  a  chum  of  Dan  Dacy,  the  conductor  you  robbed 
at  Chickasha — you  remember,  I  guess!  Keep  your 
mouth  shut  and  you  won't  need  a  ticket!  You're 
my  guest."     He  even  gave  me  a  berth  in  the  sleeper. 

Now,  for  the  first  time  I  began  to  feel  free.  Partly, 
278 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

I  suppose,  it  was  the  unexpected  kindness  of  the  con- 
ductor, and  partly  the  approach  to  Indian  Terri- 
tory. I  watched  the  prairies  blend  into  chestnut 
woods,  and  the  hills  grow  big  in  the  distance.  I 
stood  on  the  platform  and  drank  the  air  in  big 
mouthfuls. 

During  my  trip  from  the  penitentiary  to  Kansas 
City,  during  my  fortnight  at  Slater,  I  had  kept 
apart  from  people,  refusing  all  overtures.  Now,  I 
expanded  and  began  talking  with  my  fellow  passen- 
gers. One  party  I  liked,  especially — an  old  doctor 
from  somewhere  in  the  Middle  West,  his  wife,  and 
their  niece,  a  pretty,  sensible,  and  attractive  young 
woman  of  twenty-five  or  so.  I  found  myself  pres- 
ently sitting  alone  in  the  observation  car  with  the 
niece.  No  one  can  imagine  how  pleasant  it  seemed 
to  talk  freely  and  on  equal  terms  with  a  charming 
woman.  So  gradually  did  we  become  friendly  that 
I  forgot  my  resolution  to  let  everyone  know  my 
exact  status.  She,  herself,  recalled  it  to  me,  as  it 
happened.  Like  many  people  from  further  East,  she 
knew  of  the  Territory  mainly  by  its  train  robberies. 
She  began  asking  about  bandits.  With  a  queer, 
uneasy  feeling  that  I  wasn't  playing  fair,  I  told  her 
stories  of  the  trail — I  even  put  some  of  my  own 
adventures  into  the  third  person. 

Fate  helped  me  to  do  the  square  thing.  I  was 
279 


BEATING    BACK 

sitting  with  her  on  one  side  of  the  observation  car, 
absorbed  in  conversation,  when  I  happened  to  glance 
across  the  aisle.  There  sat  a  Territorial  official 
who  certainly  recognized  me ;  and  he  was  talking  with 
her  aunt  and  uncle !  I  read  his  expression,  as  con- 
victs do.  He  was  waiting  for  the  first  opportunity 
to  tell  them  who  this  little,  red-headed  stranger 
really  was! 

"Let's  go  out  on  the  platform,"  I  said  to  the  girl. 
With  her,  at  least,  I  must  anticipate  him. 

There  I  told  her  that  the  adventures  I  had  been 
relating  were  mostly  my  adventures,  and  that  I  had 
just  come  from  the  penitentiary. 

"How  dehghtful !"  she  said.  "Please  tell  me  some 
more !" 

Her  people,  as  I  perceived  when  we  rej  oined  them, 
failed  to  see  it  in  the  same  light.  But  she  was  an 
independent  American  girl,  and  their  disapproval 
made  little  difference.  We  two  had  a  pleasant  time 
all  the  way.  I  never  saw  her  again ;  but  I  hear  from 
her  occasionally.  She's  married  and  almost  as  happy 
as  she  deserves  to  be.  She  can't  know,  even  though 
I've  told  her,  how  much  heart  she  gave  me  to  begin 
my  fight. 

It's  easy  to  remember  in  detail  a  passage  in  your 
life  which  is  full  of  action,  fight,  and  big  emotion. 
It's  different  with  the  dull  places  between.     My  mem- 

280 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

ories  of  the  first  month  or  so  at  Lawton  are  dim  and 
confused.  I  went  to  lodge  in  a  room  over  my  brother 
John's  law  office.  I  found  a  few  belongings,  like  a 
Winchester  rifle  which  I  shouldn't  need  any  more ; 
and  these  I  pawned  or  sold  to  keep  myself  going. 
Everyone  appeared  glad  to  see  me — especially  such 
old  acquaintances  as  had  settled  in  Lawton.  The 
newspapers  all  over  Oklahoma  made  a  great  story 
of  my  arrival.  Most  of  them  embellished  the  tale 
with  accounts  of  crimes  which  I  never  committed. 
These  articles  burned  me  up  with  rage  and  chagrin. 
I  wanted  no  more  fame  or  infamy  as  an  outlaw — I 
wanted  to  put  such  a  past  utterly  behind  me. 

The  main  question — getting  work — was  another 
matter.  I  must  wait  at  least  a  year  before  present- 
ing at  Washington  a  petition  for  restoration  of 
citizenship.  Until  that  time,  I  could  not  hang  out 
my  own  shingle,  I  had  hoped  that  some  attorney  at 
Lawton  might  employ  me  to  draw  briefs  and  pre- 
pare cases.  But  the  place  was  small,  new,  and  over- 
lawyered.  All  the  practicing  attorneys,  including 
my  brother  John,  had  time  to  prepare  their  own 
cases.  John  would  have  employed  me,  nevertheless ; 
but  m}'  pride  wouldn't  let  me  take  anything  more 
from  him. 

I  thought,  then,  of  business,  I  had  no  training 
in  commercial  lines,  but  I  had  learned  clerical  rou- 

281 


BEATING    BACK 

tine,  after  a  slip-shod  fashion,  in  the  Ohio  Peniten- 
tiary. Through  friends,  I  sent  out  feelers  toward 
several  firms  which  might  need  help.  The  answers 
were  always  courteous  refusals.  Everyone  wanted  to 
shake  my  hand  and  wish  me  well;  no  one  would  risk 
the  keys  of  his  safe  with  an  ex-convict. 

Oklahoma  City  was  large  and  more  settled.  Per- 
haps the  lawyers  over  there  might  need  clerks.  I 
made  the  journey  in  order  to  approach  two  or  three 
firms  whose  members  I  knew.  These  men  welcomed 
me  cordially,  asked  me  to  have  a  drink,  and  prom- 
ised to  consider  the  proposition.  I  never  heard  from 
any  of  them  again. 

During  this  trip  I  had  my  first  adventure  with 
the  police.  Going  down,  I  met  a  friend  from  El 
Reno.  On  the  night  seven  years  before,  when  I 
visited  that  town  to  kill  Temple  Houston,  I  had  left 
an  extra  revolver  with  that  man  and  he  had  carried 
it  ever  since.  Now,  he  took  his  first  opportunity  to 
restore  it.  I  slipped  this  weapon  carelessly  into  my 
pocket,  thinking  to  pawn  it  in  Lawton. 

When  I  had  finished  my  business  with  the  lawyers, 
I  determined  to  visit  Purcell,  near  by,  to  see  if  I 
could  collect  an  old  debt.  As  I  stood  before  the 
semicircular  ticket  office  at  the  station,  I  saw  a 
man  in  plain  clothes  looking  intently  at  me  through 
the   window    opposite.      I    recognized   his    trade    as 

282 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

though  lie  had  flashed  a  badge.  He  was  a  detective. 
Nine  policemen  out  of  ten  cannot  disguise  them- 
selves from  an  experienced  lawbreaker.  By  the 
same  token,  I,  less  than  a  month  out  of  jail,  still 
had  the  prison  brand  on  me.  To  this  day,  I 
myself  am  always  picking  ex-convicts  from  a 
crowd. 

And  there  I  was,  with  a  loaded  45-caliber  re- 
volver in  my  pistol  pocket! 

As  nonchalantly  as  I  could,  I  asked  the  price  of 
a  ticket  and  turned  away.  When  I  went  through 
the  door,  I  managed  to  swing  my  head  over  my 
shoulder  with  a  careless,  natural  motion.  He  was 
following.  I  strolled  down  one  street,  and  then  an- 
other. Still  he  hung  on.  I  came  to  a  Chinese  chop- 
suey  restaurant.  iNIaking  a  quick  decision,  I  turned 
into  this  place,  hurried  through  it,  brushed  aside  a 
Chinese  cook  who  tried  to  stop  me,  and  emerged 
from  the  back  door. 

The  detective  had  anticipated  me.  He  was  wait- 
ing at  the  entrance  of  the  alley. 

"Come   along  to   headquarters,"   he   said. 

"Well,  just  keep  your  hands  off,"  I  replied.  I 
knew  that  above  all  things  I  must  prevent  a  search. 
When  they  found  that  revolver,  they'd  either  hold 
me  as  a  suspicious  character  or  put  me  through  for 
carrying  concealed  weapons.     Small  as  the  offense 

283 


BEATING    BACK 

was,  the  newspapers  would  howl  it  from  end  to  end 
of  the  Territory.     It  stood  to  ruin  me. 

"You'd  better  not  take  me  in,"  I  went  on.  "I'm  a 
personal  friend  of  the  chief."  This  happened  to  be 
true. 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  replied  the  detective. 

"He'll  take  it  out  on  you,"  I  said. 

"Sure,"  he  answered.     "Come  along  now!" 

I  had  one  more  chance — if  the  chief  were  in.  When 
they  started  to  arraign  me,  I  asked  the  desk  ser- 
geant:    "Where's  the  Chief.?" 

"He's  gone  home,"  the  sergeant  had  the  grace  to 
reply.     "Come  on  now — name  and  occupation!" 

"See  here,  Sergeant,"  I  said,  making  a  last  blufF, 
"I've  told  your  fly  cop  that  I'm  a  friend  of  the  chief, 
and  he  won't  believe  me.  Now  let  me  tell  you  that, 
if  you  put  me  in  a  cell,  you'll  run  against  it — hard. 
I'll  give  you  no  further  warning — understand.'"' 

He  hesitated,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  won.  Police- 
men are  always  afraid  that  they'll  arrest  someone 
with  a  pull,  and  lose  their  jobs. 

"If  you're  such  a  friend  of  the  chief,  you  can 
call  him  up  on  the  telephone  there,"  said  the  ser- 
geant. 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  chief  and  I  were  shaking 
hands.  I  had  escaped  both  booking  and  search.  I 
tell  this  trivial  story  to  show  how  careful  a  convict 

284 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

must  be.  Oklahoma  City,  at  the  time,  regarded  the 
law  against  concealed  weapons  as  a  dead  letter. 
Probably  half  the  respectable  citizens  carried  a  re- 
volver now  and  then.  But  that  slight  offense  came 
near  ruining  me. 

Back  in  Lawton  again,  I  found  myself  approach- 
ing the  end  of  my  resources.  I  could  have  lived  on 
John,  but  my  old  spirit  of  independence  reasserted 
itself.  I  had  pawned  the  last  valuable  article  I 
owned  when  I  received  a  business  proposition.  A 
wholesale  whiskey  firm  offered  me  a  salesmanship  in 
Indian  Territory. 

I  didn't  like  the  whiskey  business  then,  and  I  don't 
now.  Yet  there  is  a  kinder  side  to  the  liquor  traffic. 
Any  man  of  experience  knows  that  a  bartender  will 
cash  a  doubtful  check  for  a  stranger  when  banks 
and  hotels  will  not.  And  the  whiskey  men,  alone 
among  the  merchants  of  Oklahoma,  took  chances 
with  me. 

In  a  sense,  my  new  business  was  illegal.  Indian 
Territory  had  a  strict  law  making  the  sale  of  liquor 
a  crime.  I  recalled  this  to  my  prospective  employ- 
ers. They  responded  by  pointing  out  that  the  law 
did  not  hold  the  salesman  guilty ;  it  was  they,  or 
the  resident  retailer,  who  violated  the  law.  I  list- 
ened to  this  sophistry,  for  I  was  growing  desperate 
with  poverty;  and  I  accepted  the  position  at  a  sal- 

S85 


BEATING    BACK 

ary  of  twenty-five  dollars  a  week,  traveling  expenses, 
and  a  commission  above  certain  average  sales. 

I  never  made  the  commission ;  for  as  a  whiskey 
salesman  I  was  a  miserable  failure.  I  found  plenty 
of  society  in  the  Territory,  but  it  was  mainly  among 
people  with  whom  I  had  hoped  never  to  mix  again. 
They  wouldn't  let  me  forget  the  past.  They  intro- 
duced me  round  the  towns ;  and  everywhere  I  felt 
that  people  were  coming  to  see  me  as  a  kind  of 
free  show.  The  newspapers  kept  making  a  story 
of  me.  When  they  ran  out  of  facts,  they  printed 
the  unmitigated  lies  which  grow  up,  I  suppose,  about 
any  well-known  criminal.  I  kept  trying  to  find  some 
employment  which  I  considered  more  legitimate.  But 
here,  as  at  Lawton,  the  people  who  wrung  my  hands 
and  listened  to  my  stories  had  "no  opening  at  pres- 
ent." Unconsciously,  I  was  slipping  backward.  But 
still  I  dreamed  of  the  day  when,  with  my  citizenship 
restored,  I  could  follow  my  own  business  in  my  own 
way. 

Most  of  the  money  I  made  for  salary  went  toward 
helping  Frank.  Then,  too,  I  broke  my  year  as  sales- 
man by  three  trips.  First,  I  traveled  to  Fort  Leav- 
enworth and  saw — never  mind  how — that  Frank  was 
made  a  trusty.  I  felt  it  necessary  to  do  that,  for 
his  health  had  nearly  broken  under  the  strict  regime. 
Then  my  father  died  in  Missouri.     When  the  doc- 

286 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

tors  gave  him  up,  I  went  to  him  and  stayed  to  the 
end.  I  used  all  my  influence  to  ^et  Frank  pardoned 
a  few  months  before  his  time,  so  that  Father  might 
see  him  again.     I  couldn't  compass  that. 

And,  finally,  I  got  track  of  the  cattleman  who, 
after  the  store  robbery  at  the  Border,  had  gone  to 
Mexico  with  nearly  ten  thousand  dollars  of  mine  and 
Frank's.  It  was  old,  tainted  money — yes.  But  I 
had  paid  my  debt  to  the  law;  and  these  funds  could 
help  me  immeasurably  in  making  my  start.  That  I 
never  thought  of  restoring  this  money  to  the 
storekeeper  proves  that  I  wasn't  yet  right  with  the 
world. 

So  I  invested  all  my  savings  in  a  collection  trip  to 
Mexico.  It  was  money  wasted.  When  he  heard  that 
I  was  in  the  vicinity,  the  cattleman  ran  away.  I 
came  back  broke,  and  resumed  the  whiskey  business 
with  even  less  heart  than  before. 

All  this  time,  what  with  my  associations,  I  under- 
went a  continual,  dropping  temptation  to  play  for 
easy  money.  Sometimes  the  offers  were  dramatic, 
and  sometimes  insidious.  For  example,  I  found  my- 
self near  Lenora,  where  Billy  Raidler,  after  his  term 
expired,  had  gone  to  keep  a  little  store.  Between 
his  old  wound  and  eight  or  nine  years  of  prison, 
Billy  was  in  bad  shape.  Feeling  that  I  might  never 
see  him  again,  I  went  to  him  for  a  short  visit.     One 

287 


BEATING    BACK 

day  his  wife  brought  the  news  that  three  men  wanted 
to  see  us  in  the  back  yard.  We  found  an  old  long- 
rider  who  had  belonged  to  a  different  gang  from 
mine,  and  two  dangerous  looking  strangers. 

"Boys,"  said  the  old  long-rider,  "we  heard  that 
Al  was  here.  We've  been  keeping  track  of  the  bank 
in  Tcloga.  It  ain't  any  too  well  guarded.  Suppose 
you  fellows  throw  in  with  us.'"' 

We  told  them  that  we'd  gone  square,  and  couldn't 
think  of  such  a  thing. 

"Besides,"  I  said,  by  way  of  dissuading  them, 
"there's  nothing  much  in  robbing  a  country  bank 
around  here.  They  keep  as  little  cash  on  hand  as 
possible.  I  don't  believe  you'd  get  more  than  two 
thousand  dollars." 

"Well,"  said  the  old  long-rider,  "two  thousand 
dollars  beats  old  nothing.  Can't  you  boys  just  be 
lookout  for  us,  without  taking  a  hand  yourself.?" 

I  saw  that  they  were  determined ;  and  I  also  saw 
that  it  wouldn't  do. 

"See  here,  fellows,"  I  said,  "whether  we  take  a 
hand  or  no,  this  stands  to  get  Billy  and  me  in  bad. 
Suppose  a  bank  or  a  train  is  robbed  while  we're  in 
this  region  together.?  The  marshals  will  grab  us, 
first  thing.  Likely  as  not,  they'll  railroad  us  through. 
You  can't  make  anyone  beheve  we  didn't  take  a 
hand." 

288 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

"Oh,  if  that's  the  case,"  said  tlie  long-rider,  "we'll 
quit.     Come  on,  boys.     Let's  be  riding." 

When  they  were  gone,  Billy  and  I  went  to  the 
saloon  across  the  street  to  play  a  little  pitch.  The 
proprietor  gumshoed  up  to  us,  and  said: 

"Who  wore  those  fellows  that  just  rode  out  of 
Billy's  yard.?" 

"Old  friends,"  said  I. 

"What  are  you  boys  up  to  now.'"'  he  asked — 
thereby  proving  my  contention. 

On  my  return  to  Lawton,  Hck  Thomas,  a  famous 
old  deputy  United  States  marshal  and  then  chief  of 
police,  called  on  me,  saying  that  he  wanted  me  to 
meet  a  man  from  the  East.  We  went  across  the 
street,  and  Thomas  introduced  me  to  his  friend — 
under  an  assumed  name,  as  I  found  later.  I  sus- 
pected him  from  the  first.  He  had  that  "bull  look" 
which  every  ex-convict  knows.  Moreover,  as  we  got 
to  talking,  he  asked  me  too  many  questions  about 
my  past.  When,  finally,  he  inquired  whether  any 
of  my  old  companions  were  alive  and  active,  I  felt 
certain  of  his  profession.  However,  I  played  inno- 
cent, and  parried  his  questions  with  a  few  jokes. 

Suddenly  he  asked: 

"Who  was  the  little  dark-haired  American  that 
talked  with  you  in  Monterey,  Mexico,  last  month.""' 
The  question  was  sprung  quickly  in  order  to  sur- 

289 


BEATING    BACK 

prise  a  reply — which  it  nearly  did.     However,  I  an- 
swered : 

"I  met  several  old  cow-puncher  friends  in  Monte- 
rey. I  can't  recall  exactly  the  man  you  have  in 
mind." 

The  detective  turned  to  Marshal  Thomas. 

"Hek,"  he  said,  "we'd  better  come  clean  with  Jen- 
nings here.  He's  foxy."  Then  to  me.  "My  name's 
Captain  Dodge.  I'm  chief  detective  for  the  Wells- 
Fargo  Express  Company.  I've  followed  your  trail 
in  the  old  days — you've  caused  us  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.     What's  going  to  be  your  attitude  now?" 

"Captain,"  I  answered,  "that's  a  strange  line  of 
talk.  If  I  intended  doing  anything,  you  may  be  sure 
I  wouldn't  tip  it  to  you  in  advance." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Captain  Dodge,  "but  I  want 
to  make  an  agreement  with  you.  My  men  and  I  have 
been  at  your  elbow  ever  since  you  left  prison.  We 
have  a  regular  diary  of  your  movements  in  our  files." 
He  went  on,  relating  incident  after  incident,  until  he 
proved  his  point.  "And  here's  something  which 
maybe  you  don't  know,"  he  went  on.  "When  you 
were  last  at  Holdenville,  four  armed  men  came  into 
town  and  behaved  as  though  they  intended  to  hold 
up  a  train.  The  police  got  a  tip,  and  scared  them 
away. 

"There's  where  I  did  you  a  good  turn,"  continued 
290 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

Captain  Dodge.  "The  chief  was  going  to  arrest  you 
on  suspicion,  but  I  persuaded  him  not  to  do  it,  be- 
cause I  knew  that  you  had  no  connection  with  that 
bunch." 

"I'm  glad  that  I  had  someone  to  testify  for  me," 
I  replied.  "You  must  know  what  an  arrest  on  sus- 
picion means  to  an  cx-convict  who  is  going  straight." 

"Now  for  my  proposition,"  said  Captain  Dodge. 
"If  you  ever  go  on  the  road  again,  I  want  you  to 
leave  Wells-Fargo  alone.  In  that  case,  I'll  be  your 
friend ;  and  so  will  the  company.  I  don't  care  what 
you  do  to  other  companies ;  I'll  guarantee  that  they 
shan't  have  the  benefit  of  our  information." 

"Captain,  I've  cut  that  game  out,"  I  replied,  "not 
because  I'm  afraid  of  you  or  any  other  detective 
agency,  but  because  I'm  trying  to  prove  myself 
worthy  of  men  who  have  believed  in  me." 

"Well,  you  may  not  be  afraid  of  us,"  said  Cap- 
tain Dodge,  "but  please  remember  that  we  have  been 
able  to  keep  a  diary  for  you  as  well  as  you  could 
have  kept  it  yourself.  Anyhow,  our  agreement  goes, 
does  it.?" 

I  agreed,  and  shook  hands  on  it.  The  idea  that 
I  should  ever  go  on  the  road  appealed  to  me  as  ridic- 
ulous then;  but  our  compact  served  to  drive  away 
the  detectives  from  my  heels. 

After  this,  there  happened  a  series  of  disturbing 
291 


BEATING    BACK 

events,  all  driving  me  toward  the  same  end.  Per- 
haps I  had  better  state  the  master  motive  first.  I 
had  chosen  this  time  of  all  others  to  fall  in  love.  I 
wanted,  and  wanted  hard,  to  get  married. 

I  had  been  avoiding  what  is  conventionally  known 
as  "society."  I  had  a  few  invitations,  it  is  true,  but 
I  found  that  I  was  wanted  only  to  entertain  the 
morbidly  curious.  I  had  determined,  also,  to  give 
no  thought  to  women.  But  it  seems  that  in  all  my 
struggles  an  unseen  power  shaped  my  destiny.  One 
morning,  as  I  stood  before  my  brother's  law  office, 
a  beautiful  young  woman  stopped  at  the  fruit  stand 
a  few  yards  away.  Impelled  by  a  perfectly  decent 
and  yet  overwhelming  impulse,  I  stepped  up  to  her 
and  made  some  trivial  inquiry — I've  now  forgotten 
what.  She  answered  me  with  the  easy  frankness  of 
a  Western  woman,  and  let  me  know  by  her  manner 
that  the  conversation  was  closed.  I  turned  away; 
but  I  did  not  forget  her.  A  few  daj^s  later,  I  found 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  J.  E.  Deaton,  a  com- 
mission merchant.  In  busy  times  she  worked  at 
the  store;  and  so,  when  business  took  me  there — 
which  it  often  did — I  would  talk  to  her  a  little.  And, 
in  her  case,  I  broke  my  resolution  to  lay  my  whole 
past  before  every  new  acquaintance.  I  realized  that 
I  was  deceiving  her;  but  the  truth  came  hard.  I 
didn't  get  up  my  nerve  to  do  what  I  must,  until  one 

292 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

evening  when  I  walked  home  with  her  from  the  store. 
Then  I  dehberately  made  her  stop  on  the  steps  of 
the  high  school  while,  in  broken  sentences,  I  told 
her  everything.  After  I  finished  there  was  a  long 
silence. 

"I  have  known  all  the  time  about  you,"  she  said, 
finally.  "Everyone  is  talking  about  it.  If  my  as- 
sistance will  help  you,  you  have  it."  From  that 
time  she  was  my  friend.  Her  family  met  me  on 
equal  terms.  Her  mother,  a  truly  Christian  woman, 
made  me  welcome  in  a  thousand  ways. 

I  wanted  to  marry  Miss  Deaton;  a  dozen  times  I 
was  on  the  point  of  telling  her  so.  But  I  couldn't 
ask  a  young  girl  to  assume  such  a  burden  as  I ;  and 
I  was  in  no  position  to  support  a  wife. 

As  though  by  act  of  the  devil,  my  last  resource 
fell  away  from  me  at  this  very  time.  My  employer 
called  me  from  the  road  to  the  home  office.  As  tact- 
fully as  possible  he  explained  that  I  "wasn't  suited'* 
to  the  business  of  selling  whiskey.  My  sales  had 
fallen  far  below  the  guarantee.  Other  firms  were 
getting  the  Indian  Territory  business.  He'd  keep  me 
on  a  salary  until  I  found  something  else  'to  do; 
but,  meantime,  another  man  would  take  my  route. 
My  pride  wouldn't  let  me  accept  a  salary  for 
charity. 

I  quit  with  some  confidence,  however,  because  it 
293 


BEATING    BACK 

seemed  then  that  my  period  of  probation  was  almost 
finished.  I  had  been  out  of  prison  more  than  a  year 
now;  and  I  promptly  filed  at  Washington  an  appli- 
cation, accompanied  by  the  regular  certificates  of 
character,  to  have  my  citizenship  restored.  I  knew 
of  no  reason  why  it  should  fail;  it  seemed  to  me  a 
mere   formality. 

In  the  shortest  possible  time,  the  application  came 
back — refused.  Why  this  discrimination  I  have 
never  known.  Perhaps  the  officials  of  the  Depart- 
ment of  Justice  were  sore  because  Mark  Hanna  went 
over  their  heads  to  get  my  commutation.  Perhaps 
the  railroad  and  express  companies  used  their  in- 
fluence against  me.  Perhaps  I  owed  it  to  my  con- 
spicuously hard  record.  At  any  rate,  both  position 
and  prospects  were  gone. 

I  had  scarcely  recovered  from  this  blow  when 
another  followed.  My  sister  Mary  fell  dangerously 
ill.  I  went  to  her  farm,  borrowing  the  money  from 
John.  The  doctors  had  given  her  up.  In  this  very 
week  Frank's  term  at  Fort  Leavenworth  expired. 
I  telegraphed  to  him  at  the  prison,  explaining  the 
situation,  and  asked  him  to  come  as  soon  as  the 
gates  opened  for  him.  I  intended  to  meet  him  with 
a  team  at  the  railroad  station,  but  I  mistook  the 
date.  So  I  was  sitting  on  the  piazza  of  Mary's  house 
when  I  looked  across  the  fields  and  recognized  the 

294 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

swinging,  athletic  stride  which  I  knew  so  wclL  I 
ran  to  him. 

"How's  Mary?"  he  asked — and  his  voice  choked. 
As  for  me,  I  couldn't  speak.  I  ohIj  shook  my  head. 
I  took  his  hand,  as  I  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  little 
boy,  and  we  walked  in  silence  back  to  the  house. 

Mary  didn't  die,  after  all.  Her  disease  required 
nursing  more  than  medicine.  Frank  took  hold, 
worked  with  her  night  and  day,  and  pulled  her 
through. 

With  Frank  out  of  prison  I  felt  a  queer  rebound. 
The  hopelessness  of  my  present  situation  was  push- 
ing me  unconsciously  toward  crime ;  and  my  fear  of 
consequences  began  to  weaken.  When  an  old  long- 
rider  hunted  me  up  and  told  me  of  a  flimsy,  ill- 
guarded  bank  in  a  new  town  near  Mary's  home,  I 
listened,  although  I  pretended  to  laugh  at  his  propo- 
sition. For  a  day  or  two  I  struggled  with  tempta- 
tion. The  old  habit  had  begun  to  reassert  itself — 
the  habit  of  taking  chances  for  easy  money.  The 
worse  man  in  me  tricked  the  better  by  whispering 
that  I  needn't  stick  with  crime  after  this  one  job. 
Let  me  get  away  with  it  unsuspected,  and  I'd  have 
the  money  to  marry  and  start  the  honest  life. 
Finally,  I  approached  Frank  and  opened  the  matter 
by  a  series  of  hints. 

"My  God,  Al,  what  do  you  mcan.'^"  he  said,  when 
295 


BEATING    BACK 

he  got  my  drift.  "Don't  you  understand  that  we're 
both  of  us  going  on  the  square?" 

I  passed  it  off  as  a  joke.  But  Frank's  words 
stiffened  me  hke  a  dash  of  cold  water.  I  returned 
to  Lawton  with  a  new  determination  to  conquer  the 
world. 

Then  came  the  most  miserable,  degraded  period 
of  my  free  life.  I  had  no  money  whatever.  As  I 
have  said,  John  gave  me  the  use  of  a  room  over  his 
office.  There  I  lodged  with  my  nephew.  Young  John, 
son  of  my  brother  Ed.  I  ate  irregularly.  John 
kept  urging  me  to  board  at  his  house.  I  refused;  I 
couldn't  take  any  more  from  a  brother  who'd  spent 
a  fortune  in  my  behalf.  Sometimes,  I  would  accept 
from  him  an  invitation  to  supper.  Otherwise,  I  lived 
on  scraps  which  Young  John  brought  me  from  the 
restaurant  where  he  worked.  Young  John  had  just 
enlisted  in  the  United  States  Navy,  and  was  filling  in 
time,  while  he  waited  for  assignment,  on  the  first  job 
he  could  find.  I  made  efforts  to  get  any  kind  of 
work.  But,  by  now,  people  had  rather  forgotten  me 
as  a  melodramatic  train  robber,  and  remembered 
only  the  ex-convict  part  of  my  hfe.  No  one,  it 
seemed,  would  have  me. 

My  one  decent  associate,  outside  of  my  family, 
was  Miss  Deaton.  And,  actually,  I  didn't  know  how 
long  I'd   have   the   clothes   to   appear  clean   in  her 

296 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

presence.  Otherwise,  I  drifted  into  the  only  com- 
pany wliich  I  could  frequent  on  equal  terms.  Small 
and  new  as  the  city  was,  Lawton  had  a  "gun  joint" 
where  crooks  resorted.  I  began  to  hang  round  this 
place.     And  the  inevitable  happened. 

Two  bank  burglars  came  through  town. 

I  met  them  in  the  "gun  joint."  One,  whom  I'll 
call  Dutch,  had  been  with  me  in  the  Oliio  Peniten- 
tiary. An  experienced  hand,  he  was  breaking  in  a 
3"oung  fellow  named  Tom.  And  they  had  staked 
out  a  bank  burglary  at  Fort  Cobb.  But  they  were 
off  their  regular  beat,  and  a  crook  in  a  strange 
neighborhood  is  like  a  cat  in  a  strange  garret.  They 
wanted  an  outside  man,  who  knew  the  territory,  to 
guide  them,  keep  watch  during  the  job,  and  assist 
in  the  getaway.  Dutch  put  his  proposition  plausibly. 
The  danger  was  mostly  theirs.  Even  if  the  police 
found  me  in  the  region,  no  one  would  suspect  me. 
I'd  been  a  robber,  not  a  burglar.  By  now,  the  bulls 
had  stopped  shadowing  me. 

I  let  the  worse  man  fool  the  better  again.  If  I 
pulled  off  this  job  safely,  I  could  get  married.  True, 
there  was  a  risk — but  nothing  venture,  nothing  have. 
With  hardly  a  struggle  I  slipped  back  into  the  old 
life — only  one  stage  lower  than  I  had  ever  gone 
before. 

We  started  the  next  night,  in  a  buckboard.  But 
£97 


BEATING    BACK 

first  I  called  on  Miss  Deaton.  I  told  her  that  I  was 
going  away  on  a  business  trip,  and  hoped,  on  my 
return,  to  have  a  talk  with  her  about  my  future.  At 
that,  she  looked  me  straight  between  the  eyes,  and 
said: 

"See  that  your  business  is  of  the  right  kind." 

"Oh,  sure,"  I  replied,  carelessly.  But  I  noticed 
that  when  I  said  good-night  she  remained  at  the 
door,  watching  me. 

I  proved  a  poor  guide.  We  missed  the  road.  We 
drove  for  two  days  before  we  reached  a  grove  in  the 
region  of  Fort  Cobb,  and  sat  down  to  make  the 
"soup."  Burglars  and  yeggs  carry  the  explosive, 
for  safety,  in  the  shape  of  dynamite  sticks.  Just 
before  the  job,  they  boil  it.  That  brings  the  nitro- 
glycerine to  the  surface  in  the  form  of  a  yellow, 
greasy  scum,  which  they  pour  carefully  into  a  bottle. 
In  this  form  it  becomes  a  dangerous  compound, 
whose  whims  no  man  thoroughly  understands.  For 
safety,  they  pour  a  layer  of  water  on  top  of  the  mess 
before  they  cork  it.  I  was  nervous  during  the  oper- 
ation. Dutch  noticed  it,  and  laughed  uproariously 
to  see  an  old  train  robber  and  marshal  fighter  afraid 
of  a  little  "soup." 

At  about  midnight  we  walked  into  Fort  Cobb, 
leaving  our  horses  tied  in  the  grove.  I  have  told  be- 
fore how  my  first  train  robbery  affected  my  nerves. 

298 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

This  was  a  great  deal  worse.  An  engine  down  by 
the  station  began  to  blow  off  steam.  I  jumped  as 
though  at  a  shot.  I  rounded  a  corner  and  saw  a 
light  in  a  hotel  window.  It  sent  me  cringing  against 
a  wall.  And  new  considerations  sprang  into  my 
mind — things  of  which  I  hadn't  thought  when  I 
carelessly  joined  this  burglary.  Suppose  I  were 
caught  or  even  arrested  on  suspicion — what  a  re- 
payment to  Mark  Hanna  and  Warden  Darby  and 
John  and  the  others  who  had  stood  by  me !  They 
would  know  that  I  had  absolutely  broken  my  prom- 
ise; they  would  think  that  I  had  been  fooling  them 
all  along.  And  Miss  Deaton!  People  were  cutting 
her  already  for  associating  with  an  ex-convict. 
She'd  be  disgraced — she  might  even  be  arrested.  On 
that,  I  stopped  completely. 

My  pals  hadn't  failed  to  notice  how  I  felt.  And 
it's  a  curious  thing  about  a  criminal  job  that,  when 
one  man  loses  his  nerve,  it  affects  all  the  rest. 

"What's  the  matter.?"  asked  Dutch.  His  voice 
was  shaking. 

"I  don't  like  the  looks  of  this  town,"  I  said.  "A 
train  has  just  come  in.  People  will  be  around  for 
quite  a  while.  You  didn't  tell  me  that  the  hotel  kept 
open  all  night." 

In  the  shadow  of  a  building  we  talked  it  over.  We 
had  all  become  ringy. 

299 


BEATING    BACK 

"Well,"  said  Dutch  at  last,  "we'd  better  gef  out." 
No  man  in  the  world  ever  felt  more  relieved  than  I 
at  this  moment.  If  Dutch  had  decided  otherwise, 
I  should  probably  have  gone  through  with  the  rob- 
bery. 

When  we  got  clear  of  the  town,  Dutch  began  to 
laugh   at  me. 

"You  had  cold  feet,  that's  all,"  he  said.  "They 
generally  do,  first  job  out  of  prison."  After  we'd 
had  some  sleep,  Dutch  and  Tom  held  a  conference. 
They  had  been  watching  a  little  town  in  the  region, 
it  appeared.  The  local  jeweler  carried  a  pretty  good 
stock  in  an  "easy"  safe.  If  I'd  drop  them  near  the 
town,  they'd  lay  out  this  job,  Dutch  said.  Mean- 
while, I  had  better  go  back  to  Lawton  with  the  buck- 
board.  They'd  join  me  in  a  day  or  two,  and  we'd 
make  a  fresh  start  on  the  new  job.  I  heard  this  plan 
with  inexpressible  relief. 

All  this  time  Dutch  had  carried  the  "soup"  in  an 
inside  pocket.     As  we  were  parting,  he  said: 

"Of  course,  you'll  have  to  take  the  soup  back  with 
you — we  can't  be  pinched  with  it  on  us.  Keep  it 
warm  against  your  body — if  it  freezes,  up  you  go ! 
Watch  it.  When  it  starts  to  bubble  from  the  bot- 
tom, it's  getting  dangerous,  and  the  only  way  to 
hold  it  is  to  pour  in  a  little  more  water.  Don't  get 
sudden  when  you  pull  the  cork!" 

300 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

I  tucked  the  bottle  into  my  inside  pocket,  where 
it  lay  like  a  devil  all  the  way.  The  further  I  went 
the  more  it  got  on  my  nerves.  I  was  half-way  home, 
and  driving  through  a  district  without  inhabitants 
or  water  courses,  before  I  thought  to  take  it  out  and 
look  it  over. 

It  had  begun  to  bubble  from  the  bottom ! 

Between  this,  my  recent  failure,  and  my  bad  con- 
science, I  had  a  terrible  case  of  nerves.  I  couldn't 
find  any  water.  There  was  a  light  fall  of  snow  on 
the  ground.  I  thought  of  melting  snow  with  my 
hands.  Then  I  grew  afraid  that,  somehow,  the 
warmth  might  set  the  stuff  off — Dutch  hadn't  told 
me  anything  about  the  effect  of  warm  water  on 
nitroglycerine.  I  thought  of  pouring  it  on  the 
ground,  but  I  couldn't  be  sure  that  the  exposure  to 
icy  air  mightn't  freeze  it.  I  thought  of  throwing 
it  away ;  but  I  felt  that  I  couldn't  send  it  so  far  that 
the  explosion  wouldn't  kill  me.  If  I  left  it  by  the 
railroad,  someone  would  surely  strike  it.  I  lashed 
the  horses,  hoping  to  reach  a  water-course  of  some 
kind.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  bumping 
might  set  it  off  and  I  slowed  the  team  down  to  an 
easy  trot.  It  seemed  years  before  we  crossed  a 
hill  and  sighted  a  brook.  There,  I  broke  the  ice,  and 
watered  my  nitroglycerine. 

From  the  miserable  confusion  of  that  expedition 
301 


BEATING    BACK 

I  can't  pick  out  the  actual  moment  when  I  reached 
an  understanding  of  myself  and  my  present  situa- 
tion. But  I  arrived  at  Lawton  a  criminal  in  spirit. 
I  had  fallen;  and  I  felt  that  the  old  way  was  the 
only  way.  I  kept  only  one  promise  with  my  better 
self.  I  wouldn't  disappoint  those  who  had  helped 
me.  I  would  take  to  the  road  in  some  remote  coun- 
try, where  the  news  of  my  fall  and  end  wouldn't 
reach  them.  As  for  the  girl,  I  must  give  her  up 
forever.  I  had  been  a  fool  to  think  of  joining  her 
life  with  a  life  like  mine. 

That  night  I  called  on  her.  She  looked  me  square 
in  the  eye,  as  she  asked: 

"Did  your  trip  succeed?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "it  didn't." 

"I'm  glad  you've  come  back  as  you  are,"  she  re- 
plied. 

When  I  left,  I  bade  her  good-night  as  carelessly  as 
I  could;  for,  to  me,  it  meant  good-bye. 

I  went  to  bed  with  the  dynamite  in  a  warm  corner 
of  the  room.  Young  John  was  out  at  some  party  or 
other.  When  he  came  in  and  started  to  undress,  he 
began  throwing  his  clothes  and  shoes  around,  boy- 
fashion.  I  sat  up  in  bed,  my  hair  fairly  raising;  and 
suddenly  I  lost  my  nerve. 

"For  God's  sake,  keep  still!"  I  cried.  "There's 
a  pint  of  nitroglycerine  in  that  bottle  over  there!" 

302 


(V^'^'i 


**»*- 


'There,  I  broke  the  ice,  and  watered  my  nitro-glycerine' 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

Young  John  stopped  as  though  he  had  frozen. 
He  said  notliing;  only  as  he  finislicd  undressing  he 
kept  looking  at  me.  He  was  a  sharp  boy,  and  he 
understood — no  honest  man  keeps  nitroglycerine  in 
his    room. 

Next  day,  I  buried  the  "soup"  in  a  warm  place.  I 
determined  not  to  go  with  Dutch  and  Tom  on  the 
new  job;  I  would  take  no  more  chances  near  home. 
Nevertheless,  I  had  crossed  the  line.  All  day,  I 
moped  about,  thinking.  I  sat  late  that  night  on  the 
steps  of  my  brother's  office,  until  my  final  plan  shaped 
itself  in  my  mind.  I  would  go  to  ^Icxico,  where  I 
knew  three  or  four  long-riders,  refugees  from  the 
Territory,  who  had  been  doing  well.  There,  I  would 
pick  up  a  gang,  and  play  the  game  through.  Of 
course,  the  rurales  or  the  natives  would  kill  me  in 
the  end.  No  bandit  with  any  sense  expects  to  finish 
his  days  in  bed.  But  it  was  that  or  suicide.  As  for 
Miss  Deaton — that  was  only  another  place  where  I 
was  being  scared.  I  would  go  to  Mexico — and  to  the 
devil.  The  only  question  was  how  I  should  get  my 
fare. 

I  had  my  face  buried  in  my  hands  when  Youjig 
John  came  along,  and  plumped  down  beside  me. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  boy?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,"  I  replied,  of  course. 

"I  know  there  is,"  he  answered,  "ever  since  what 
303 


BEATING    BACK 

happened  last  night."  I  couldn't  get  around  that. 
The  nitroglycerine  in  my  room  had  given  me  away 
completely. 

Little  by  little,  Young  John  wormed  it  out  of  me. 
By  the  end  of  an  hour  I'd  told  him  everything. 

"Hang  on  a  while,  Uncle  Al,"  he  said.  "If  you 
won't  take  money  from  Uncle  John,  you'll  sure  take 
it  from  me.  I  join  my  ship  next  week,  and  then  my 
pay  starts.  I'll  send  you  every  cent  until  you  get 
on  your  feet." 

Though  this  touched  me  to  the  very  roots  of  my 
heart,  I  shook  my  head. 

"Then,  how  about  the  girl.'"'  proceeded  Young 
John. 

"If  I  go,"  I  said,  "I'll  leave  everything  behind. 
She'll  never  know." 

"Old  Sox,"  said  Young  John,  "why  don't  you 
marry  her.'"' 

"It  takes  two  to  make  a  bargain,"  I  replied.  "And 
how  can  I  ask  her  when  I  can't  support  even  my- 
self.?" 

"Oh,  hell!"  said  Young  John,  "any  girl  ought  to 
be  glad  of  the  chance!"  I'm  reporting  just  what 
Young  John  said,  understand. 

In  that  very  moment,  as  I  remember,  one  of  my 
sudden  turns  came  over  me.  It  was  as  though  the 
better  nature,  almost  put  out  in  the  struggle,  had 

304 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

risen  up  and  dealt  the  worse  one  a  crushing  blow.  I 
saw  everything  differently.  I'd  fight  it  out  to  the 
death — and  I'd  take  the  decisive  step  at  once.  Be- 
fore I  went  to  sleep  that  night,  I  hatched  an  idea 
which  I  wouldn't  have  dared  entertain  before,  it  was 
so  daring.  The  first  thing  next  morning,  I  went  to 
Judge  Frank  E.  Gillett,  one  of  the  best  and  kindest 
men  in  the  world,  and  an  old  family  friend.  I  found 
him  alone  in  his  chambers. 

"Judge,"  I  said — as  nearly  as  I  can  remember 
now — "you  know  how  I'm  fixed.  I  don't  have  to  say 
that  I'm  down  and  out.  There's  only  one  legiti- 
mate line  I  can  follow — law.  And  I'm  not  a  citi- 
zen. Is  there  any  way  for  me  to  practice  in  your 
court.?" 

"No  one's  going  to  say  who'll  practice  in  my 
court,"  replied  Judge  Gillett.  "Come  on  and  say 
nothing  about  it  until  someone  objects!"  I  know 
that  the  human  understanding  of  that  big  and  noble 
man  had  enabled  him  to  read  my  mind.  He  saw  that 
by  this  straining  of  the  law  he  was  saving  a  life  and 
a  soul. 

I  dared  not  draw  back  now.  I  went  clean  through. 
Calling  up  Miss  Deaton  on  the  telephone,  I  asked 
to  see  her  at  once.  I  told  her  of  my  trip  with  the 
burglars,  my  conversation  with  Young  John,  my 
new  opportunity — everything.    Plainly  and  squarely, 

305 


BEATING    BACK 

I  asked  her  if  she  cared,  under  such  circumstances, 
to  throw  in — at  once — with  a  poverty-stricken  ex- 
convict. 

She  did. 

I  proceeded  with  that  marriage  about  as  I  used 
to  hold  up  a  train.  Before  I  left  the  house,  I  had 
made  her  parents  consent.  I  started  at  once  for  city 
hall.  I  had  asked  County  Judge  Hussey  to  issue 
a  license  and  perform  the  ceremony,  before  I  remem- 
bered that  I  hadn't  a  cent  in  my  pocket.  I  told  him 
so,  frankly.  "But  I'll  pay  you  when  I  get  the 
money,"  I  said. 

"My  God,  boy,  is  that  all  you  want,'"'  replied 
Judge  Hussey,  jumping  to  his  feet.  "I'd  do  ten 
times  that  for  you.  And  I  know  and  admire  the 
young  lady.  This  wedding's  on  me."  We  started 
afoot  for  the  bride's  house.  On  the  way  I  implored 
the  judge  not  to  make  any  long  talk;  long  talks  to 
me  from  the  bench  always  made  me  nervous.  "Just 
enough  to  make  it  binding,  Judge,"  said  I,  at  which 
he  laughed. 

They  had  gathered  the  wedding  party — Maude's 
parents,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  E.  Ramsey,  their  daugh- 
ter, who  was  Maud's  dearest  friend.  Young  John, 
and  Fred  Deaton.  I  hadn't  the  nerve  to  notify  my 
brother  John.  He  would  have  considered  the  prop- 
osition too  ridiculous.     So  we  were  married,  and  sat 

306 


BETWEEN    TWO    NATURES 

down  to  a  wedding  feast  got  together  in  a  hurry. 
I  remember  that  I  needed  it;  for  I  was  hungry. 

A  few  days  later,  two  things  happened  ahnost  at 
once.  Dutch  and  Tom  returned  to  Lawton  with 
news  that  the  job  at  the  jewelry  store  was  ripe;  they 
wanted  me  to  come  along,  and  bring  the  "soup."  I 
dug  up  the  bottle  and  handed  it  over;  then  I  broke 
the  news  that  I  had  finished  with  crime  for  good. 

"That's  what  they  all  say !"  said  Dutch. 

Before  the  two  burglars  had  got  out  of  town  a 
man  in  jail,  charged  with  stealing  cattle,  sent  for 
me  and  asked  me  to  defend  him.  I  plunged  into  that 
case  as  though  I  were  defending  Standard  Oil  be- 
fore the  United  States  Supreme  Court.  The  job 
proved  a  hard  one,  but  I  got  him  off.  He  paid  me 
fifty  dollars  down  on  a  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollar 
fee.    With  that,  Maud  and  I  went  to  boarding. 

Now  that  I  had  a  practice  of  my  own,  my  pride 
permitted  me  to  accept  a  partnership  with  John. 
We  hung  out  the  shingle,  "Jennings  and  Jennings, 
Attorncys-at-Law."  Every  time  I  entered  or  left 
the  office  I  used  to  view  that  sign  from  all  angles. 

When  I  last  mentioned  Frank  he  was  leaving 
Mary's  farm  to  find  work.  Unlike  me,  he  had  the 
frame  and  the  patience  for  common  labor.  He 
drifted  about  for  a  time,  trying  many  things — all 

307 


BEATING    BACK 

honest.  First,  he  worked  as  carpenter's  helper  on 
a  new  grain  elevator.  The  contractors  rushed  that 
job,  neglecting  every  precaution  to  save  the  men. 
Before  they  finished,  eleven  mechanics  were  killed  or 
maimed.  Frank  has  told  me  since  that  every  time 
he  mounted  the  scaffolding  he  expected  death.  "And 
yet  they  send  men  up  for  train  robbery,"  he  said. 
He  landed,  finally,  in  Oklahoma  City.  There  he  met 
Miss  Nellie  Bunyan,  who  was  society  editor  of  the 
Guthrie  Leader — an  able  and  beautiful  young  girl. 
They  had  known  each  other  only  a  few  weeks  when 
they  were  married  at  the  home  of  United  States 
Marshal  John  Abernathy.  With  her  help,  he  worked 
back  into  the  law.  He's  located  in  New  Mexico,  and 
doing  well.  My  last  letter  brings  the  news  that 
Mrs.  Frank  has  been  elected  president  of  the  Wom- 
en's Club,  and  that  they  think  of  returning  to  Okla- 
homa to  get  a  wider  field  for  his  law  practice. 

Probably  no  one  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
both  Frank  and  I  believe  in  woman  suffrage ! 


CHAPTER    XIV 

REHABILITATION 

FROM  the  day  when  I  married  and  crept  back 
into  law  by  a  side  door,  the  old  life,  with 
its  sense  of  adventure,  its  restlessness,  its 
continual  uneasiness  and  its  feeling  of  disgrace, 
passed  forever  behind  me.  I  could  afford  to  take  no 
more  chances.  Now  that  I  had  a  good  and  inno- 
cent woman  to  consider,  I  had  to  control  the  prompt- 
ings and  temptations  of  that  worse  man  in  me. 

As  I  went  on  building  up  my  practice,  I  began  to 
notice  how  my  powers  had  increased  between  the 
age  of  thirty-two,  when  I  took  to  the  road,  and  the 
age  of  thirty-nine,  when  I  made  my  final  peace  with 
society.  I  had  grown  rusty  in  law,  and  had  to 
acquaint  myself  with  the  new  decisions.  I  found 
myself  absorbing  books  as  a  dry  field  absorbs 
rain.  It  seemed  that  I  had  but  to  glance  over  a 
passage  in  order  to  remember  it.  When  I  rose  to 
speak  in  court  I  possessed  a  confidence,  a  mastery 
of  words,  and  a  power  of  emotion  which  I  had  never 

309 


BEATING    BACK 

known  bcfoi'e.  Above  all,  I  found  that  I  had  a  new 
knowledge  of  men,  by  which  I  read  their  thoughts 
before  they  spoke. 

I  realized  in  time  that  I  owed  all  this  to  my  five 
or  six  years  in  county  jails  and  penitentiaries.  Up 
to  the  point  where  it  breaks  a  man,  prison  life  is  a 
drill  for  the  memory — one  has  nothing  to  do  but  re- 
member. The  tragic  sense  of  misery,  and  the  re- 
straint which  you  must  keep  over  your  terrible  im- 
pulses, tend  to  develop  all  the  harder  powers.  And, 
if  you  expect  to  live  through  it  and  get  any  allevia- 
tion at  all,  you  must  learn  such  skill  in  reading 
faces,  gestures,  and  hidden  meanings  as  no  free  man 
ever  acquires.  The  guard  is  always  with  you ;  your 
happiness  and  comfort  depend  on  foohng  or  per- 
suading him.  With  nothing  to  occupy  you  except 
mere  mechanical  labor,  you  watch  his  face  day  by 
day  to  see  what  he  is  thinking.  You  keep  the  same 
scrutiny  over  all  your  surroundings.  To  this  day, 
I  am  always  surprising  my  friends  by  deductions 
which  they  take  for  a  kind  of  clairvoyant  instinct. 
For  example,  I  will  be  sitting  with  a  group  of  a  dozen 
people  having  a  talk.  Someone  will  look  up  and 
say:  "Why,  where's  John  gone?"  No  one  but  I 
will  know — I  can  always  tell  when  and  how  he  left 
the  room.  Usually  I  have  learned  by  his  expression 
and  gesture  what  made  him  leave — and  all  that  with- 

310 


REHABILITATION 

out  losing  any  of  my  absorption  in  the  conversa- 
tion. I  wasn't  so  before  I  took  to  tlie  road ;  and  I 
got  the  liabit  in  prison.  That  my  old  crimes  and 
my  punishment  raised  me  from  a  rough  country 
practitioner  to  a  real  lawyer  I  haven't  the  slightest 
doubt. 

My  first  client,  as  I  have  said,  was  charged  with 
cow-stealing.  I  picked  up  two  or  three  more  briefs 
of  the  same  kind  before  I  began  the  systematic 
course  of  soliciting  small  law-business  which  would 
he  called  "ambulance  chasing"  in  a  larger  city.  No 
one  would  as  yet  trust  me  with  cases  involving  prop- 
erty ;  I  knew  that  and  I  didn't  attempt  such  practice. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  criminal  element,  as  soon  as  I 
began  to  prove  my  competence,  showed  a  disposition 
to  employ  me.  They  regarded  me  still  as  one  of  their 
own  kind ;  they  could  tell  me  everything  without  fear 
that  I  would  break  their  confidence.  Moreover,  I 
had  a  special,  technical  knowledge  of  their  game ;  I 
could  bring  out  points  of  which  the  ordinary  lawyer 
never  dreams.  I  worked  up  from  small  cases  to 
reall}-  important  ones,  such  as  a  murder  famous  in 
Oklahoma.  Before  I  knew  it  I  had  all  the  criminal 
practice  I  wanted. 

The  sign,  "Jennings  and  Jennings,"  was  not 
weather-beaten  before  I  had  my  last  offer  to  adopt 
the  old  life.     One  day,  when  I  returned  to  the  office 

311 


BEATING    BACK 

from  court,  I  found  my  brother  John  looking  seri- 
ous and  severe. 

"Al,"  he  said,  "there's  been  a  man  here  asking  for 
you.  He  wouldn't  give  his  name,  but  I  shouldn't 
call  him  honest  from  his  looks.  He's  watching  the 
office  now — over  on  the  corner." 

I  peeped  through  the  shutters  and  recognized  my 
man  at  once,  although  he  had  grown  a  beard  since 
I  saw  him  last.  It  was  "Charlie,"  as  I  have  called 
him,  the  old  bank  burglar  who  escaped  from  the 
Ohio  Penitentiary  with  the  help  of  the  "sewer  route," 
a  party  of  accomplices,  and  a  can  of  red  pepper.  I 
went  racing  over  to  him.  Charlie  was  a  portly  and 
dignified-looking  person,  with  polished  manners.  As 
he  stood  there,  you'd  have  thought  he  owned  the 
street. 

"Who's  that  fellow  in  your  office,  Al.'"'  he  asked 
the  first  thing.     "Has  a  kind  of  a  bull  look  to  me !" 

"That's  my  brother,"  I  replied. 

Charlie  didn't  believe  me  for  some  time.  It  was 
amusing  how  he  and  John  read  each  other  at  once; 
if  John  had  been  really  sure  that  this  was  a  bur- 
glar, he'd  have  called  the  police,  just  to  guard 
me. 

"What  the  blazes  are  you  doing  in  this  country.?" 
I  asked.  In  half  the  Eastern  cities  the  police  had 
posted  Charlie  as  a  fugitive. 

312 


REHABILITATION 

"Saw  from  the  papers  you'd  started  a  law  prac- 
tice down  here,"  said  Charlie.  "And  it  struck  me 
you  had  a  great  chance  to  be  an  outside  man.  Say, 
that's  an  easy-looking  bank  down  there — you  must 
know  where  they  keep  the  dogs.  Fix  it  for  me,  and 
we'll  split."  I  had  a  hard  time  convincing  Charlie 
that  I  had  gone  square,  and  meant  to  stay  square. 
He  left  me  and  started  back  North  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  is  disappointed  in  his  friend.  His  offer 
worried  and  amused  me ;  but  it  presented  no  tempta- 
tion whatever — and  yet,  only  a  few  months  before,  I 
had  accepted  the  very  same  offer  from  Dutch  and 
Tom. 

Lawton  was  a  new  city,  just  shaking  itself  into 
form.  The  courts,  like  the  commercial  enterprises, 
had  been  run  at  first  without  any  great  attention  to 
rules  and  etiquette — the  main  object  was  to  get  the 
business  done.  But  Lawton  began  to  settle  doww; 
and  when  this  happened  the  ex-convict  who  had 
opened  practice  before  Judge  Gillctt's  court,  with- 
out the  formality  of  becoming  a  citizen,  attracted 
attention  from  certain  conservative  lawyers.  Fur- 
ther, I  had  taken  away  practice  from  some  lesser 
lights;  and  they  grew  naturally  jealous.  Three 
members  of  the  bar  finally  made  an  informal  pro- 
test to  the  court.  Nothing  came  of  it;  and  Judge 
Gillett  never  referred  to  the  matter  in  my  presence. 

313 


BEATING    BACK 

However,  the  clerk  of  the  court  told  me  afterwards 
that  the  judge  read  them  a  lecture  on  Christian 
charity. 

I  went  along,  building  up  my  practice.  After  a 
year  of  our  partnership,  John  moved  to  Oklahoma 
City,  and  I  set  up  offices  alone.  By  the  end  of  three 
years  I  shared  with  one  other  man  the  reputation  of 
Lawton's  most  successful  criminal  lawyer.  I  no 
longer  drew  all  my  clients  from  the  criminal  classes. 
Business  and  professional  men,  charged  with  of- 
fenses against  the  law,  gave  me  their  briefs.  And 
now  I  began  to  hear,  through  roundabout  channels, 
that  I  was  a  "menace  to  society."  That  other  man, 
my  rival  in  criminal  practice,  was  "a  smart  lawyer," 
a  "leading  light  of  the  bar" — but  he  hadn't  done 
time  in  the  penitentiary.  So  it  always  goes  with 
the  ex-convict. 

However,  I  didn't  let  this  worry  me,  until  the 
sneers  began  in  court.  There  was  a  time  when  I 
felt  that  I  stood  aloof  from  the  whole  bar.  I  have 
left  the  courtroom,  after  a  trial,  weak  with  helpless 
anger.  I  am  referring  not  to  those  exchanges  of 
repartee  which  any  lawyer  is  a  fool  to  resent,  but 
to  subtle  and  deliberate  attempts  to  hurt  my  feel- 
ings by  recalling  my  past.  Against  such  tactics  I 
could  do  nothing.  I  could  not  even  take  up  the 
matter  outside  of  the  courtroom,  because  that  might 

314 


REHABILITATION 

necessitate  a  fight — and,  above  all  things,  a  man  of 
my  reputation  must  avoid  personal  encounter. 

One  day,  I  finished  my  argument  in  a  bank-wreck- 
ing case,  and  left  court  with  W.  I.  Gilbert  to  get  a 
glass  of  beer.  "Bill"  Gilbert  is  one  of  the  men  whom 
I  robbed  in  the  Chickasha  hold-up.  When  the  firing 
began  that  day  he  hid  his  big  money  and  valuables 
behind  a  steam  pipe.  I  tell  him  that  the  diamond 
ring  which  he  wears  belongs  to  me.  When  I  re- 
entered the  law  he  became  my  friend ;  we  were  asso- 
ciated in  many  trials. 

As  we  stood  talking  and  drinking  our  beer,  an 
old  lawyer  and  journalist  of  Lawton  approached  us. 
I  asked  him  to  have  a  drink.  He  had  already  had 
too  much,  it  appeared,  although  nothing  about  his 
manner  showed  it.     He  just  stood  looking  me  over. 

"I  don't  propose  to  drink  with  a  damned  ex- 
convict!"  he  said. 

I  felt  like  sinking  through  the  floor.  My  pride 
told  me  that  I  should  fight  him ;  but,  actually,  I 
never  felt  less  like  fighting  in  my  life.  The  insult 
had  taken  all  the  starch  out  of  me;  and  I  knew  what 
the  community  would  say — "Al  Jennings  has  broken 
loose  again." 

I  controlled  my  face,  and  passed  it  off  as  a  joke. 
He  refused  to  take  it  that  way.  He  piled  insult  upon 
insult — asked   the   whole   place   to  look   at   the   ex- 

315 


BEATING    BACK 

convict  who  was  trying  to  be  a  lawyer.  Still,  I  held 
my  tongue.  He  made  a  rush  at  me.  He  was  a  big 
man,  weighing  perhaps  190  pounds,  while  I  was  just 
a  sliver.  Nevertheless,  I  defended  myself,  without 
hitting  him,  until  Gilbert  and  the  bystanders  pulled 
him  off.  By  this  time  I  had  grown  really  angry ; 
I  was  grinding  my  teeth  to  suppress  my  temper. 
Several  jurors  in  the  case  stood  about  the  room. 
B}'  way  of  regaining  ^elf-control  I  forced  myself 
to  talk  with  them.  I  had  begun  to  recover  balance 
when  someone  yelled: 

"Look  out,  Al!" 

I  heard  a  rush  behind  me,  and  ducked  just  in  time 
to  avoid  a  heavy  blow.  Then  my  muscles  acted  in 
spite  of  my  brain.  I  caught  him  a  short  shoulder 
punch  which  sent  him  on  his  back.  As  he  rose  I 
hit  him  again — how  and  where  I  don't  know,  but  I 
left  him  down  and  out. 

I  walked  back  to  the  courtroom  with  my  face 
bleeding  from  a  finger-nail  scratch  which  I  had  re- 
ceived in  the  first  encounter.  The  news  had  pre- 
ceded me.  During  recess.  Judge  Gillett  called  me 
into  his  chambers. 

"So,"  he  said,  "you've  had  a  fight,  have  you.'*" 

"Yes,  Judge,"  said  I,  "and  it's  one  that  I  regret 
very  much." 

"Fights,"  said  the  judge,  "are  to  be  regretted — 
316 


REPIABILITATION 

officially.  Privately,  I'm  glad  you  did  it.  The  in- 
cident should  teach  certain  people  a  lesson."  Let 
me  say  here  that  Judge  Gillett  never  let  his  personal 
kindness  affect  his  judgment  on  the  bench.  If  any- 
thing, he  bent  backward.  Also,  I  hold  no  resent- 
ment against  my  assailant.  Sober,  he  was  a  gentle- 
man. 

I  broke  loose  once  again ;  and  that  incident  I  shall 
regret  to  my  dying  day.  I  had  been  defending  a 
great  many  "bootleggers" — our  Southwestern  slang 
for  illicit  whiskey  peddlers.  I  disliked  the  existing 
method  of  enforcing  liquor  laws,  and  especially  the 
nefarious  spy-system.  The  feeling  between  me  and 
the  prosecutor  had  grown  pretty  bitter.  Finally,  I 
took  the  brief  of  a  notorious  bootlegger  who  had 
operated  openly  and,  as  everyone  believed,  under 
official  protection.  The  prosecutors  had  for  chief 
witness  an  ex-convict  from  Texas,  whom  they  used 
habitually  as  a  spy.  I  interviewed  this  man;  he  ad- 
mitted that  he  had  often  accused  innocent  people. 
I  made  him  swear  to  this  on  the  stand. 

The  prosecution  was  forced  to  turn  against  its 
witness.  When  he  rose  to  address  the  jury  the 
chief  representative  of  the  prosecution  was  in  a  white 
heat  of  anger.  He  scored  the  spy  from  Texas  as  a 
perjurer  before  he  touched  on  the  subject  of  ex- 
convicts  in  general.     All  of  them,  he  said,  were  on 

317 


BEATING    BACK 

the  same  footing;  all  were  a  menace  to  society. 
Shooting  ostensibly  at  others,  he  hit  me ;  yet  he  did 
it  so  cleverly  that,  while  everyone  knew  what  he 
meant,  I  could  not  claim  protection  of  the  court. 

By  the  time  I  began  my  address  I  had  forgotten 
my  determination  to  ignore  such  insults.  I  turned 
to  the  jury  and  laid  my  record  on  the  table.  I  told 
of  my  criminal  past,  my  prison  sentences,  my  re- 
form. I  told  of  the  insults  which  I  had  endured 
from  the  bar  of  Oklahoma.  I  went  on  to  say  that 
I  had  left  behind  me  in  jail  a  lot  of  petty  thieves 
with  more  character  and  honesty  than  a  number  of 
officials  now  standing  in  that  very  courtroom.  I 
pointed  my  finger  to  the  objects  of  my  references. 

"You  know  that  is  true,  you  white-livered  curs," 
I  said. 

The  judge,  who  had  been  sitting  as  though  para- 
lyzed, slammed  down  his  gavel  at  this  point. 

"I  won't  permit  such  language  as  that !"  he  said. 

"You'll  have  to  permit  it,"  said  I.  "This  is  one 
time  I'm  going  to  be  heard,  if  I  go  back  to  the 
penitentiary  for  it."  Then  I  went  through  the  court, 
muckraking  man  after  man — I  didn't  spare  even  the 
jurors.  I  laid  bare  old  offenses  about  which  every- 
one in  Lawton  knew,  and  no  one  had  dared  whisper 
publicly.  A  minor  court  official  stepped  across  as 
though  to  stop  me. 

318 


REHABILITATION 

"Stay  where  you  are !"  I  said.  "You're  a  bribe- 
taker yourself!"  He  froze  in  his  tracks  as  though 
I'd  pulled  a  gun  on  him. 

After  that,  neither  the  court  nor  the  officials  tried 
to  stop  me.  I  finished  my  speech,  turned,  and  left 
the  courtroom. 

A  half  an  hour  afterward  I  would  have  given 
anything  I  owned  to  undo  that  speech — although  all 
I  said  was  true  to  the  best  of  my  belief.  I  almost 
expected  to  be  disbarred,  but  no  one  took  action. 
There  was  pity  in  this,  as  well  as  fear,  I  suspect. 

Let  me  not  convey  the  impression  that  every  mem- 
ber of  the  bar  jabbed  me  with  my  old  record.  Sev- 
eral of  the  most  eminent,  even  in  the  heat  of  a  stiff 
fight,  would  handle  delicately  any  reference  to  ex- 
convicts.  Yet  the  one  thing  which  hurt  me  most, 
during  my  active  days  at  Lawton,  was  a  constantly 
recurring  episode  of  court  routine.  The  bar  would 
be  sitting  quietly,  listening  to  the  empaneling  of 
jurors.  The  judge,  as  by  law  required,  would  ask 
each  juror  if  he'd  ever  served  a  term  in  the  peni- 
tentiary. The  same  thing  always  happened — two 
or  three  lawyers,  usually  lesser  lights,  would  glance 
at  the  court  and  then  at  me,  and  give  a  smile  or  a 
nudge.  Probabh'  they  thought  I  didn't  see  them; 
but  very  little  in  human  expression  goes  past  an  ex- 
convict.     I   remembered   these  sneers ;   and  when   I 

319 


BEATING    BACK 

opposed  the  culprits  in  court,  I  would  lash  them 
down  the  line  like  runaway  slaves. 

On  the  social  side  of  life  I  was  less  mortified — 
perhaps  because  I  gave  little  opportunity  for  slights. 
I  have  never  cared  much  for  so-called  "society." 
Life  has  been  so  exciting  for  me  that  purely  social 
pleasures  seem  tame  at  best.  From  the  first  I  nailed 
my  colors  to  the  mast,  as  I  had  resolved  to  do  when 
Bart  and  I  discussed  my  comeback  in  the  Ohio 
Penitentiary.  My  old  acquaintances  knew  the  worst. 
Whenever  I  had  more  than  a  passing  talk  with  a 
new  man,  I  contrived  to  tell  him  that  I  had  been  an 
outlaw  and  a  convict.  In  some  cases  this  has  pro- 
duced an  awful  shock.  But  I  wanted  my  new  ac- 
quaintance to  know  the  worst.  It  gave  him  his 
choice  between  seeking  and  avoiding  me.  Let  me  say 
thp.t  nine  men  out  of  ten  to  whom  I  made  this  frank 
admission  renewed  the  acquaintance.  Of  all  the  dis- 
graces I  know,  none  would  sting  me  more  deeply 
than  to  have  some  man  say :  "That  fellow  Jennings 
has  imposed  on  me;  I  have  learned  that  he  is  an 
ex-convict." 

I  bent  backward  in  my  pride.  If  I  was  ostracized 
in  Lawton  society  it  was  a  voluntary  ostracism.  As 
time  went  on,  and  I  worked  up  in  the  law,  a  few 
people  of  standing  invited  Mrs.  Jennings  and  me  to 
their  houses.     I  always  found  a  way  to  refuse  with- 

320 


REHABILITATION 

out  giving  offense.  Probfibly  these  people  sought 
me  as  they  would  seek  anyone  else.  But  at  the  time, 
I  attributed  the  action  to  curiosity  or  charity ;  either 
I  felt  they  wanted  to  thrill  their  friends  by  exhibit- 
ing a  bandit,  or  they  hoped  to  show  me  that  I  wasn't 
such  an  outcast  after  all.  There  came,  later,  a  few 
such  invitations  which  I  could  not  afford  to  refuse. 
These  occasions  I  never  enjoyed.  I  felt,  somehow, 
that  I  was  imposing  on  hospitality ;  and  I  took  care 
not  to  repeat  the  experience. 

To  expose  my  own  prison  record  has  become  as 
much  a  habit  with  me  as  shaking  hands  or  saying 
good-morning.  Yet  even  now  I  dislike  to  have  any- 
one else  make  the  first  reference.  In  my  early  days 
of  freedom  an  acquaintance  or  friend  would  some- 
times introduce  me  as  "Al  Jennings,  the  notorious 
train  robber."  No  one  ever  knew  how  deeply  this 
sank  into  my  soul.  I  felt,  at  times,  that  it  was  a 
punishment  worse  than  the  Fort  Leavenworth  Peni- 
tentiary. The  feeling  is  illogical,  I  grant  that.  But 
I  have  never  conquered  it. 

Yet,  very  gradually  Maud  and  I  become  ac- 
quainted, in  one  way  or  another,  with  a  number  of 
charming  and  congenial  people  who  had  no  social 
pretentions.  I  began  to  visit  their  houses.  Before 
we  left  Lawton  we  had  a  circle  not  of  mere  acquaint- 
ances, but  of  real  friends. 

321 


BEATING    BACK 

All  this  time  the  desire  for  rehabilitation  inspired 
my  actions.  Under  the  curious  circumstances,  a 
restoration  to  citizenship  would  scarcely  have  helped 
my  law  practice.  But  I  felt  about  the  matter  as 
many  noble  and  advanced  women  feel  about  the 
franchise.  They  may  have  no  practical  use  for  it, 
but  not  to  have  it  constitutes  a  brand  of  inferiority. 
I  dreamed  of  still  another  advance.  When,  by  elec- 
tion or  appointment,  I  should  represent  the  people 
of  Oklahoma  in  some  official  capacity,  I  should  feel 
that  I  had  completed  my  rehabilitation. 

As  things  turned  out,  I  came  near  taking  the 
second  step  before  the  first  Oklahoma  Territory 
stood  on  the  verge  of  statehood;  the  people  were 
electing  delegates  to  a  constitutional  convention. 
They  had  cut  our  county  into  two  districts.  Living 
a  mile  and  a  half  from  Lawton,  on  a  rural  route,  I 
was  in  the  southern  district,  whereas  the  city  lay  in 
the  northern.  On  one  of  those  sudden  impulses  by 
which  I  have  taken  most  of  the  turns  in  my  life,  I 
determined  to  run  for  delegate  to  the  convention. 
I  had  no  hope  of  election;  I  wasn't  even  sure  if  I 
could  legally  hold  such  an  office.  But  the  campaign 
would  prove  whether  an  ex-convict  could  expect  any- 
thing of  the  people,  and  it  would  help  my  law  prac- 
tice. I  announced  myself;  no  one  objected.  Court 
was  in  session  just  then,  and  I  had  some  difficult 

322 


"The  desire  for  rehabilitation  inspired  mj'  action" 


REHABILITATION 

cases  in  hand.  So  I  found  time  for  only  two  or 
three  speaking  appointments.  I  opened  at  the  town 
of  Chattanooga,  where  all  the  candidates  were  to 
appear  in  one  meeting.  On  the  way  to  the  hall  I 
passed  a  saloon.  The  bartender,  whom  I'd  known 
during  my  whiskey-selling  days,  asked  me  in  to  have 
a  drink.  To  his  disgust — he  being  an  old-time  West- 
ern saloon  man — I  took  a  soda. 

"I'm  going  to  vote  for  you,"  said  the  bartender, 
"but  some  of  those  candidates  have  been  noratin* 
around  that  you're  an  ex-convict.  How  about  it.'"' 
Then  and  there,  a  plan  which  had  been  growing  in 
my  mind  took  definite  form.  I  had  gone  down  to 
Chattanooga,  as  a  speaker  sometimes  will,  with  sev- 
eral lines  of  attack  in  mind.  This  reference,  at  the 
very  gates  of  the  town,  to  my  old  record,  determined 
what  line  to  adopt. 

The  rest  of  the  candidates  were  local  politicians; 
and  with  professional  politicians  I  had  always  been 
unpopular.  They  sat  apart  from  me  as  though  I 
were  tainted.  I  found  myself  scheduled  for  the  last 
speech ;  they  hoped,  I  suppose,  that  the  crowd  would 
be  going  by  the  time  I  rose. 

In  the  middle  of  the  meeting  someone  started 
a  call  for  Jennings.  The  rest  took  it  up ;  and  the 
chairman  brought  me  forward. 

I  introduced  myself  by  saying  that  I  wanted  them 
323 


BEATING    BACK 

to  know  me  as  I  was.  I  had  been  a  train  robber.  I 
had  done  time  in  two  penitentiaries.  And  I  had 
started  to  retrieve  the  past.  I  hoped  that  some  of 
the  other  candidates  would  be  as  fair  with  themselves 
as  I  had  been  with  myself. 

"For,  gentlemen,"  I  said,  "I  left  men  in  the  peni- 
tentiary at  Columbus  who  are  better  equipped  by 
ability  and  honesty  to  represent  you  before  the  con- 
stitutional convention  than  half  the  candidates  in 
this  string!  If  these  men  object  to  the  language  I 
am  using,  let  them  take  it  up  now,  and  not  slink 
through  this  district  assassinating  the  character  of 
a  man  who  is  trying  to  live  down  a  criminal  past!" 
When  I  sat  down,  I  had  captured  the  crowd.  Out 
of  seventy  votes  cast  from  Chattanooga,  I  got  all 
but  three. 

I  spoke  next  in  Frederick,  a  town  whose  citizens 
held  a  strong  logical  objection  to  me.  This  was  a 
prohibition  center,  and  I  had  been  a  whiskey  sales- 
man. Further,  the  townspeople  wanted  to  divide  the 
county,  making  Frederick  the  county  seat,  and  I 
opposed  that  plan.  No  one  would  rent  me  a  hall. 
Judge  Alexander,  a  personal  friend  but  against  me 
on  the  division  question,  told  me  that  it  would  do  no 
good  to  speak  in  Frederick. 

"Judge,  I'm  going  to  speak  if  I  have  to  get  up  in 
a  wagon  on  the  street,"  I  said. 


REHABILITATION 

"In  that  case,"  replied  Judge  Alexander,  "I'll  in- 
troduce you.  We're  against  jou,  but  you'll  get  a 
fair  shake  in  Frederick."  He  borrowed  a  wagon 
from  a  farmer,  mounted  the  cart-tail,  gathered  a 
crowd,  and  told  them  that  he  wished  to  present  a 
competent  and  honest  man,  though  a  political  op- 
ponent. 

The  news  that  the  outlaw  was  going  to  speak 
emptied  the  stores  and  houses ;  I  drew  almost  the 
entire  town.  And  I  tore  in,  as  I  had  done  at  Chat- 
tanooga— put  my  own  record  before  them  and  pro- 
ceeded to  assail  other  records.  A  wealthy  and  prom- 
inent resident  had  been  saying,  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge, that  no  decent  man  would  vote  for  an  ex-con- 
vict. I  had  been  acquainted  with  that  man  on  the 
range ;  I  knew  that  if  he  should  receive  a  year  in  the 
penitentiary  for  every  cow  he  had  stolen  he  would 
serve  two  life  terms.  I  said  this  to  the  crowd,  with 
names  and  places.  I  lost  Frederick,  in  the  election, 
by  only  fifteen  votes. 

Now  I  saw  that  my  campaign  was  going  entirely 
too  well.  I  didn't  want  the  job.  I  should  probably 
have  been  seated  without  question.  So  many  dele- 
gates more  powerful  than  I  had  records  which 
wouldn't  bear  investigation  that  no  one  would  have 
dared  start  any  muckraking.  But  such  an  illegal 
proceeding  might  rise  up  in  future  to  reproach  me. 

325 


BEATING    BACK 

However,  I  had  a  close  call.  In  spite  of  my  virtual 
withdrawal,  I  lost,  as  I  remember  now,  by  only  eight 
votes.  This  was  a  milestone  in  my  progress  toward 
rehabilitation.  I  learned  that  the  people  will  stand 
by  an  honest  man  who  confesses  his  sins. 

My  citizenship  came  soon  afterward.  When 
"Jack"  Abernathy  made  his  campaign  for  appoint- 
ment as  United  States  marshal  for  the  western  dis- 
trict of  Oklahoma,  I  acted  as  his  advisor.  He  vol- 
unteered, out  of  friendship  and  gratitude,  to  put  my 
case  before  President  Roosevelt.  We  visited  Wash- 
ington. Jack  took  me  into  the  cabinet  room,  where 
many  people  stood  waiting  for  the  President. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Mr.  Roosevelt,  when 
Jack  introduced  me.  "I've  heard  a  good  deal  of 
you.    Another  time  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

I  didn't  feel  like  letting  the  opportunity  slip. 

"Mr.  President,"  I  said,  "I've  come  a  long  way. 
I  may  never  have  a  chance  to  see  you  again." 

Mr.  Roosevelt  replied,  in  his  impulsive  manner : 

"Yes !  That's  true,  and  I  know  what  you're  after. 
Your  friends  say  you're  all  right.  John  here  en- 
dorses you,  and  I  can  trust  him.  What  I  want  to 
know  is  if  you  were  guilty  of  the  crime  for  which 
you  were  convicted." 

"No,  sir,"  I  said,  "I  was  charged  with  robbing 
the  United  States  mail,  but  I  didn't  do  that." 

326 


REHABILITATION 

Mr.  Roosevelt's  teeth  clicked,  and  he  looked  fero- 
cious. 

"You  didn't.^"  he  said.  "Weren't  you  there  at 
all.'"'  He  thought — as  Mark  Hanna  had  thought 
eight  years  before — that  I  was  putting  forth  the 
regular  talk  about  injured  innocence. 

"Yes,  I  was  there,"  I  replied.  "I  held  up  the  train, 
robbed  the  express,  and  went  through  the  passen- 
gers." 

"That,  sir,  is  a  distinction  without  a  difference," 
said  the  President, 

"It's  the  difference  between  a  few  years  in  jail 
and  life,"  I  replied,  "and  it's  the  truth." 

"That's  what  I  want,"  said  the  President,  "the 
truth.     Is  there  anything  else.^"' 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  I,  "a  great  deal  else.  But  that's 
the  only  time  I  was  ever  convicted  of  a  robbery.  I'm 
asking  you  to  judge  me  by  what  I've  done  since  I 
reformed." 

"I'm  going  to  give  you  a  pardon  restoring  your 
citizenship,"  broke  in  Mr.  Roosevelt  abruptly,  "be- 
cause I  know  you  won't  violate  my  confidence,  and 
because  I  want  to  help  you  be  a  good  boy  and  make 
a  man  of  yourself."  I  left  Washington  with  a 
signed  and  embossed  document  which  made  me  a  man 
again. 

During  our  talk  with  Mr.  Roosevelt  someone 
327 


BEATING    BACK 

spoke  about  Jack  Abernathy's  method  of  catching 
wolves  with  his  bare  hands — Jack  used  to  jump  them 
and  hold  down  their  lower  jaws  so  that  they  couldn't 
bite.  The  President  had  told  this  story,  and  certain 
persons  had  accused  him  of  being  a  "nature  faker." 

"I  can  prove  it  by  a  moving  picture,"  said 
Jack, 

"I  don't  believe  that  can  be  done,"  replied  the 
President,  "but  Pd  like  to  see  it."  As  soon  as  we 
got  back  to  Oklahoma,  Abernathy  and  I  rounded  up 
an  outfit  of  old  cow-punchers,  deputy  marshals,  and 
Indians,  hired  a  moving  picture  operator,  borrowed 
a  camping  outfit  from  the  War  Department,  and 
spent  six  weeks  chasing  wolves  before  the  camera. 
After  many  failures,  we  got  some  good  films.  We 
took  them  back  to  Washington,  and  reported  to  the 
President.  He  ordered  a  screen  set  up  on  the  wall 
of  the  East  Room;  and  there  we  gave  a  private  ex- 
hibition. 

"Marvelous !"  said  the  President.  "A  perfect  pic- 
ture !  Can't  you  show  them  here  to-morrow  night.'' 
I'd  like  to  invite  some  friends."  Jack  and  I  figured 
that  this  was  going  to  be  a  special  occasion,  so  we 
hired  dress  suits.  But  we  were  hardly  prepared  for 
what  happened.  As  we  stood  in  the  waiting  room 
talking  to  Dr.  Alexander  Lambert,  the  President 
came  bounding  in. 

328 


REHABILITATION 

"I'm  going  to  describe  these  pictures  myself!"  he 
said.     "Come  along  and  meet  my  friends  !" 

We  entered  the  reception  room ;  and  it  looked  like 
a  royal  stag  party.  There  were  almost  the  whole 
Diplomatic  Corps,  part  of  the  Cabinet,  two  or  three 
justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  Nicholas  Longvvorth, 
General  Young,  Andrew  Carnegie,  the  Italian  his- 
torian, Fcrraro,  and  a  few  others  whom  I've  forgot- 
ten. We  smoked  a  while,  and  had  a  round  of  drinks 
(I  remember,  in  the  light  of  later  events,  that  the 
President  took  only  mineral  water)  before  we  pro- 
ceeded to  the  East  Room,  stopping  on  the  way  to 
meet  Mr.  Roosevelt's  wife  and  daughter.  The  Presi- 
dent made  a  great  lecturer.  After  the  guests  left, 
we  stayed  for  a  little  chat  with  the  Roosevelts  and 
a  few  intimate  friends.  I've  been  sorry  ever  since 
that  conviction  keeps  me  in  another  political  party 
from  Mr.  Roosevelt.  I'd  like  to  support  a  man  like 
that — and  not  entirely  through  gratitude,  either. 

Half  of  the  shrinking  from  the  world,  which  no 
ex-convict  ever  wholly  overcomes,  passed  away  from 
me  with  my  citizenship.  I  went  ahead  in  the  law, 
working  from  criminal  cases,  in  which  I  had  made 
my  reputation,  to  civil  suits. 

Before  I  dismiss  this  part  of  my  life  I  feel  that  I 
must  say  a  little  about  the  law  as  I  have  found  it. 

Eminent  lawyers  will  tell  you  that  they  never  de- 
329 


BEATING    BACK 

fend  clients  whom  they  know  to  be  ^ilty,  or  appear 
in  civil  suits  for  clients  whom  they  know  to  be  wrong. 
In  the  whole  world  there  is  not  a  greater  fake  than 
this.  I  have  known  but  one  lawyer  who  refused  a 
case  because  his  client  was  guilty.  He  was  a  clergy- 
man, who  studied  law  late  in  life.  A  cattle  thief, 
jailed  in  Lawton,  asked  for  an  attorney.  The  jailer, 
out  of  kindness,  recommended  the  ex-clergyman.  The 
cattle  thief  stated  his  case. 

*'Then  you're  really  guilty.?"  asked  the  ex-clergy- 
man. 

"Sure !"  said  the  cattle  thief,  "or  why  would  I  be 
wanting  you.'"' 

"God  help  you — I  can't  defend  you;  I  can  only 
pray  for  you,"  said  the  clergyman. 

"I  wanted  a  lawyer,  not  a  preacher,"  said  the 
cattle  thief.  He  sent  for  a  regular  member  of  the 
Oklahoma  bar,  who  cleared  him.  The  ex-clergyman 
was  starved  out  of  the  law. 

Again,  there  is  the  matter  of  suborning  perjury 
and  fixing  jurors.  No  lawyer  who  cares  to  look 
himself  in  the  face  ever  actually  does  such  work; 
certainly,  I  never  did.  But  handling  perjury  which 
you  suspect  to  be  suborned  by  your  client,  appear- 
ing before  jurors  whom  you  suspect  of  being  over- 
friendly  to  your  client — that's  another  matter.  I 
believe  that  every  criminal  lawyer  does  these  things 

330 


REHABILITATION 

in  one  period  or  another  of  his  career.  Let  me  take 
murder  as  a  typical  crime.  Except  in  cases  where 
the  defense  can  pick  to  pieces  imperfect  circum- 
stantial evidence,  how  does  a  guilty  man  escape? 
In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  through  the  perjured  testi- 
mony of  himself  or  his  friends.  The  lawyer  who 
handles  his  case,  and  who  knows  him  to  be  guilty, 
builds  the  defense  on  this  perjury.  In  fact,  it's  an 
exceptionally  conscientious  lawyer  who  doesn't  sug- 
gest a  few  trimmings. 

I  have  defended  innocent  men.  I  have  defended 
guilty  men  who  deserved  no  punishment  because  of 
considerations  which  you  cannot  introduce  in  court. 
And  I  have  defended  and  cleared  men  whom  I  never 
wanted  to  see  again  after  I  left  the  courtroom. 

This  is  not  so  immoral  as  it  sounds — at  least,  not 
to  me.  I  have  viewed  the  law  of  the  land  from  both 
sides  of  the  line.  It  is  an  imperfect  institution.  The 
men  who  make  a  business  of  enforcing  it  tend,  even 
if  they  are  honest,  to  become  calloused  and  over- 
severe.  If  they  have  more  ambition  or  cupidity  than 
honesty,  they  will  go  as  far  to  convict  a  man  as  the 
crookedest  little  shyster  to  acquit  him.  "Miscar- 
riages of  law" — most  people,  when  you  use  that  term, 
think  of  guilty  men  going  free.  I  know,  as  few  other 
men  do,  that  the  miscarriage  frequently  runs  the 
other  way.      The   corrupt   and   careless   policeman, 

331 


BEATING    BACK 

being  pressed  to  find  the  culprit  in  a  troublesome 
case,  will  seize  the  first  likely  crook  in  sight  and 
railroad  him  through  by  inventing  or  bolstering  the 
evidence.  A  prosecutor  who  cares  more  for  advance- 
ment than  conscience  will  take  this  faulty  evidence, 
though  he  understands  its  real  character,  patch  it 
up,  and  get  a  conviction.  I  know  three  men  serving 
life  terms  who  are  innocent,  to  my  certain  knowledge, 
of  the  charge  on  which  they  were  convicted.  They 
had  committed  other  and  lesser  crimes,  perhaps — 
but  not  these. 

So,  with  one  side,  and  that  the  more  powerful 
one,  straining  legal  ethics,  no  one  can  blame  the 
other  side  for  following  suit.  The  law  becomes  a 
kind  of  dual  game.  First,  there  are  facts  against 
facts — the  law  as  we  intended  it  to  be.  Then  there 
are  tricks  against  tricks,  one  sharp  mind  outwitting 
the  other.  By  adding  the  scores  of  the  two  games, 
you  get  the  ultimate  result — and  justice  is  done, 
after  a  rough  fashion.  It  would  be  roughly  done 
under  the  best  circumstances.  For  many  men  who 
are  guilty  under  the  law  still  deserve  less  punish- 
ment from  my  point  of  view  than  others  who  seem 
never  to  have  transgressed  a  law  in  their  lives.  In 
which  would  the  devil  take  more  delight — a  plain 
horse  thief,  or  a  millionaire  manufacturer  bloated 
with  the  blood  of  little  children? 

332 


REHABILITATION 

All  this  time  I  had  been  growing,  I  suppose,  in 
the  regard  of  the  common  people  of  Lawton.  And, 
after  my  campaign  for  the  constitutional  convention, 
I  found  myself  perpetually  mixed  with  city  and 
county  politics.  I  hate  most  professional  politicians, 
as  I  have  said  before  and  shall  say  again;  but  I 
began  to  like  the  game  itself. 

Being  of  Southern  birth,  I  was  brought  up  to  be- 
lieve that  no  gentleman  could  be  anything  but  a 
Democrat.  After  I  began  to  do  my  own  thinking, 
Bryan  arose.  I  believed  in  him;  I've  seen  the  coun- 
try s^ving  to  my  belief.  I  was  an  outlaw  when  he 
made  his  first  campaign,  and  a  convict  when  he  made 
his  second ;  yet,  on  the  road  and  in  our  debates  at 
the  Ohio  Penitentiary  Club,  I  was  always  talking 
Bryan.  Even  before  I  regained  the  right  to  vote  I 
lined  up  with  the  Democrats — not  from  heredity, 
now,  but  from  conviction. 

A  little  chance  meeting  led  me  into  the  larger 
politics  of  the  state.  We  were  approaching  the  pri- 
mary stage  of  our  second  campaign  for  governor. 
Lee  Crucc,  the  machine  man,  and  W.  H.  Murray 
were  after  the  Democratic  nomination.  Personally, 
I  favored  neither  of  these  men.  I  should  have  liked 
to  seen  Leslie  P.  Ross  in  the  field.  An  Arkansas 
man  originally,  he  had  been  chairman  of  the  Demo- 
cratic  Territorial   Committee.      He  had  figured   as 

333 


BEATING    BACK 

the  insurgent  In  our  second  Territorial  legislature, 
when,  with  Senator  Ben  F.  Wilson,  he  stood  between 
the  politicians  and  graft.  Ross,  however,  hadn't  an- 
nounced himself;  and,  although  many  people  felt  as 
I  did  about  him,  no  one  asked  him  to  run. 

An  advertising  solicitor  named  Jepsen  appeared 
at  Lawton,  and  made  my  acquaintance.  One  evening 
we  fell  to  discussing  Ross.  He  held  my  views.  It 
seemed  to  us  a  shame  that  no  one  was  putting 
forward  a  man  so  well  fitted  as  he  to  be  a  candi- 
date. 

"Why  not  start  him  ourselves?"  I  asked.  He 
fancied  the  idea;  and  we  were  in  before  we  knew  it. 
Gathering  a  few  prominent  Democrats  who  felt  as 
we  did,  we  drafted  a  letter  to  Ross,  selected  tenta- 
tive committees  in  all  parts  of  the  state,  and  an- 
nounced ourselves  to  the  newspapers. 

The  movement  took.  Everywhere  people  who  Hked 
neither  of  the  announced  candidates  endorsed  Ross. 
We  organized  a  mass  meeting  at  Lawton,  and  per- 
suaded Ross  to  address  us.  Up  to  this  time  the 
politicians  regarded  the  Ross  movement  as  a  joke. 
But  after  our  meeting  it  gathered  momentum  like  a 
snowball.  We  grew  so  dangerous  that  Governor 
Haskell  was  rushed  to  Lawton,  where  he  made  a 
speech  tearing  the  hide  off  Ross.  He  held  his  meet- 
ing in  the  afternoon.     That  very  night  we  got  up  a 

334 


REHABILITATION 

rally.  While  the  speaking  went  on  inside,  I  read  a 
telegram  to  the  big  overflow  crowd.  By  arrange- 
ment, some  of  our  supporters  began  to  yell,  "speech." 
Others  took  it  up,  and  I  delivered  an  address  wherein 
I  recited  facts  about  the  Oklahoma  political  machine 
which  burned  in  like  a  branding-iron  on  a  nester 
calf.  When  I  sat  down  the  Ross  boom  was  launched. 
Because  there  was  no  time  to  pick  and  choose  I  be- 
came, by  logic  of  circumstances,  secretary  to  the 
Ross  campaign.  However,  we  were  too  late  in  be- 
ginning, while  our  opponents  had  been  building  fences 
for  years.  Moreover,  as  I  shall  show  later,  the  elec- 
tion laws  of  Oklahoma  are  admirably  framed  for  the 
uses  of  election  trickery.  The  machine  men  ran 
things  in  that  election  as  they  have  done  since.  And 
Ross  lost. 

When  the  campaign  was  finished  the  governor  sent 
for  me,  quite  without  preliminary  announcement.  It 
appeared  that  he  was  eager  to  conciliate  the  Ross 
forces ;  with  that  end  in  view,  I  suppose,  he  offered 
me  a  state  position.  He  was  expecting  the  resigna- 
tion of  the  state  enforcement  attorney,  that  official 
who  prosecutes  the  violations  of  our  liquor  laws. 
When  the  resignation  occurred,  he  said,  I  might  have 
the  place.  It  carried  a  salary  of  only  $5,000  a  year. 
I  was  making  much  more  than  that  in  the  law.  But, 
having  no  social  ambitions,  I  could  live  on  the  salary. 

335 


BEATING    BACK 

And  it  was  the  complete  rehabilitation  of  which  I 
had  dreamed  so  long.     I  accepted  at  once. 

In  preparation  I  closed  my  practice  at  Lawton, 
gave  up  the  little  house  and  home  acre  in  the  suburbs, 
and  moved  to  Oklahoma  City,  the  capital. 

I  acted  too  impulsively,  as  I  often  do.  The  in- 
cumbent did  not  resign,  after  all.  However,  I  had 
been  wanting  a  chance  to  practice  in  the  capital.  So 
I  formed  the  firm  of  Jennings  &  Ross,  hired  offices 
in  the  State  Bank  building,  and  set  out  to  acquire  a 
new  and  wider  practice. 

It  was  almost  like  starting  the  fight  again.  My 
penitentiary  record,  which  I  had  lived  down  and 
half-forgotten  at  Lawton,  stared  me  in  the  face  at 
every  turn.  The  bar  of  the  capital  appeared  solid 
against  me.  They  were  solid,  in  fact,  against  almost 
every  newcomer.  I  never  saw  a  place  where  law  prac- 
tice went  so  much  by  favor,  so  little  by  merit. 

A  year's  residence  in  Oklahoma  City  gave  me  a 
chance  to  study  the  business  of  our  state  government 
first  hand,  and  to  confirm  what  I  had  hitherto  sus- 
pected about  the  politicians  who  ruled  us.  In  one 
way  of  speaking  Oklahoma  is  the  newest  state  of 
all.  Those  admitted  later  have  a  much  longer  terri- 
torial history.  We  came  together  as  strangers  dur- 
ing the  few  years  after  1889.  In  such  circumstances 
the  bluffs  and  the  crooks  are  quickest  to  put  them- 

336 


REHABILITATION 

selves  forward  for  public  office.  The  state  is  still 
paying  for  its  early  mistakes  in  men.  As  I  look  at 
it,  there  are  two  stages  in  public  graft.  In  the  first, 
officials  pick  and  steal  from  the  emoluments  of  their 
office ;  in  the  second  they  tie  up  with  the  corporations. 
We  still  lived  in  the  first  stage,  though  I  saw  signs 
here  and  there  that  we  were  passing  on  to  the  sec- 
ond. However,  the  political  machines  in  both 
parties  were  fully  organized;  and,  as  usual,  they 
worked  together,  between  elections,  to  keep  the 
graft. 

With  most  Oklahomans  I  believe  that  our  state  is 
naturally  about  the  richest  of  all.  I  take  pride  with 
the  rest  that  Oklahoma  City,  founded  less  than  twen- 
ty-five years  ago,  has  grown  faster  than  any  other 
city  in  the  Union.  But  those  very  resources,  that 
very  growth,  constituted  a  danger  and  a  cause  for 
immediate  action.  If  we  did  not  check  the  politi- 
cians, I  felt,  the  people  would  awake  some  day,  as 
California  did,  to  find  their  resources  sewed  up  by 
the  corporations. 

Gradually  my  mind  settled  upon  one  important 
office — county  attorney  at  Oklahoma  City.  By  our 
legal  system  that  official  represents  the  people  in 
criminal  as  well  as  in  civil  cases.  It  is  within  his 
power  to  prosecute  every  malfeasance  in  state  office. 
I  thought  of  his  chance  to  clean  up  Oklahoma,  and 

337 


BEATING    BACK 

I  wished  that  I  had  it.     But  I  did  not  as  yet  make 
the  wish  personal. 

As  I  started  for  my  office,  one  morning  in  1912, 
"Bill"  Alexander,  the  boss  of  the  Democratic  ma- 
chine, came  along  in  his  automobile  and  picked  me 
up.  An  election  was  coming;  we  began  discussing 
the  Democratic  candidates  for  the  primaries.  Some 
remark  of  his,  I've  now  forgotten  what,  stung  me  a 
little ;  and  out  of  my  irritation  came  a  sudden  deter- 
mination. 

"Bill,"  I  said,  "I  believe  I'll  announce  for  county 
attorney." 

He  wheeled  half  round  in  his  seat  and  almost  ran 
his  machine  into  the  curb. 

"You're  a  fool !"  he  said.     "You  can't  be  elected  !" 

"If  you  think  I'm  asking  your  permission  to  run," 
I  said,  "you're  a  mile  off  the  track." 

"You  couldn't  be  elected,"  he  repeated.  "You 
have  been  in  Oklahoma  City  only  a  little  more  than  a 
year." 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  said  I.  "Let  a  man 
go  after  the  system  here  in  Oklahoma  and  the  people 
would  listen  if  the  checks  were  still  on  his  baggage. 
I'm  eligible  under  the  law." 

"Well,"  said  Bill  Alexander,  "if  you're  crazy 
enough  to  think  you  can  be  elected,  cut  your  wolf 
loose." 

338 


REHABILITATION 

By  the  time  I  left  the  automobile,  I  had  passed 
through  one  of  my  sudden  changes.  I  dropped 
everything  and  sat  down  to  write  my  announcement. 
My  previous  experience  in  the  campaign  for  the  con- 
stitutional convention  had  taught  me  my  own  weak- 
ness and  strength;  and  I  didn't  fail  to  anticipate 
criticism  from  the  other  side.  Here  is  the  document, 
as  I  sent  it  next  day  to  the  newspapers : 

In  announcing  myself  for  County  Attorney  of  Okla- 
homa City,  I  beg  to  say  that  it  is  not  without  mature 
and  serious  thought  that  I  have  done  so.  I  have  thought 
over  all  that  is  objectionable.  I  have  raked  through  the 
gray,  dead  ashes  of  the  past.  I  have  taken  a  retro- 
spective glance  into  the  dark  recesses  of  the  days  that 
are  gone,  and  I  am  willing  that  God's  sunlight  should 
be  turned  full  upon  every  act  of  my  past  life. 

I  have  never  betrayed  a  trust  or  violated  a  confidence, 
and  I  would  not  deny  the  truth  of  my  past  for  any  office 
within  the  gift  of  the  people.  But  I  would  rather  have 
my  record  in  its  blackest  hue  than  be  pointed  out  as  a 
public  "grafter,"  "official  crook"  or  "embezzler,"  who 
has  violated  his  oath  and  prostituted  the  trust  imposed 
in  him  by  the  people. 

I  am  offering  myself  for  what  I  am  worth  to-day  and 
may  prove  to  be  worth  in  the  future. 

If  the  people  are  willing  to  confide  to  my  care  the 
office  of  county  attorney,  I  pledge  my  word  and  honor 
that  I  will  send  the  men  who  have  embezzled  their 
money  and  violated  their  oaths  of  office  to  the  peniten- 

339 


BEATING    BACK 

tiary.  I  will  strike  at  violators  of  the  law,  be  they  high 
or  low,  without  fear  or  favor,  and  I  will  save  the  tax- 
payers of  Oklahoma  County  thousands  of  dollars  by 
avoiding  useless  prosecutions. 

I  colored  my  language  high,  I  suppose;  but  that 
was  how  I  felt,  and  it  was  the  language  for  the  situa- 
tion. I  took  this  document  to  the  newspaper  offices, 
and  sent  in  with  it  the  twenty-five  dollars  which,  I 
understood  from  my  experience  in  country  politics, 
must  always  accompany  a  candidate's  announcement. 
Next  day  I  received  from  Mr.  Foster,  editor  of  the 
News,  our  insurgent  daily  newspaper,  a  letter  return- 
ing my  check.  "If  it's  news  it  gets  printed  in  our 
paper,  and  money  can't  keep  it  out,"  he  wrote.  "If 
it  isn't  news  money  won't  get  it  in.  I'll  print  your 
announcement,  and,  if  you  feel  grateful,  you  may 
buy  me  a  cigar  when  we  meet  again." 

Yet  the  News  did  something  which,  for  the  mo- 
ment, made  me  sick.  It  printed  with  the  announce- 
ment a  three-column  story,  giving  my  record,  with  all 
the  lurid  details  and  the  accumulated  legends.  I  re- 
sented that,  and  I  told  Foster  so. 

"You  don't  expect  the  people  to  leave  your  record 
alone,  do  you.^"  he  asked.  "If  you  keep  still  your 
opponents  will  do  the  talking.    Besides,  it's  news." 

I  opened  my  campaign  for  nomination  at  Hurrah, 
a  small  town  on  the  Rock  Island  Railroad.    I  had  ad- 

340 


REHABILITATION 

vertised  in  advance;  the  people  were  waiting  for  me. 
As  I  walked  from  the  station  to  the  hotel  I  saw  only 
one  friendly  countenance.  The  citizens  stood  glower- 
ing at  me  suspiciously  from  under  tlieir  hat-brims. 
They'd  turn  down  their  faces  as  I  approached,  and 
whisper  busily  when  I'd  passed.  The  shrinking,  ex- 
convict  feeling  came  up  in  me.  At  the  hotel  my  one 
friend  in  Hurrah  introduced  me  to  a  few  residents. 
They  shook  hands  listlessly,  and  backed  away.  I 
stood  until  the  time  came  for  my  speaking — it  was  to 
be  a  street-corner  address — talking  with  an  old  one- 
eyed  negro,  who  wanted  to  know  why  the  Democrats 
had  "franchised"  him. 

When  I  mounted  the  wagon  and  Jim  Jacobs,  my 
campaign  manager,  introduced  me,  the  crowd  re- 
mained stolid  and  silent.  No  one  applauded  as  I 
rose.  The  faces  before  me  were  seamed  with  toil  and 
burned  with  the  sun.  The  hands  showed  warts  and 
knots  from  long  labor.  And  the  sight  of  these  plain 
people  gave  me  encouragement  for  a  plain,  honest 
talk. 

I  began  by  saying  that  I  had  announced  for 
county  attorney  because  I  believed  the  people  needed 
some  one  who  would  really  fulfill  the  duties  of  the 
office.  "I've  been  a  robber,"  I  said,  "but  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor,  which  I  have  never  violated,  either 
as  a  robber  or  a  man,  that,  if  you  elect  me,  I'll  send 

341 


BEATING    BACK 

the  embezzlers  to  the  penitentiary.  Many  men  whom 
you  have  hitherto  trusted  have  been  playing  with 
you.  They  asked  your  votes  in  the  name  of  the  Re- 
publican or  Democratic  parties.  They  were  neither 
Democrats  nor  Republicans,  but  common  thieves." 
To  prove  it  I  read  a  certain  affidavit. 

Then  I  swung  into  my  own  record,  as  I  had  done 
years  before  in  the  campaign  for  the  constitutional 
convention.  I  had  spoken  an  hour  and  twenty  min- 
utes before  I  finished  confessing  my  old  sins  before 
my  fellow-citizens. 

I  closed  by  reciting  the  Scriptural  story  of  Christ 
and  the  Magdalen,  and  leaving  the  inference  to  my 
audience. 

Halfway  through  I  began  to  see  light  in  the  faces 
before  me.  When  I  read  the  affidavits  a  burst  of 
applause  interrupted  me.  As  I  touched  on  my  rec- 
ord the  old,  one-eyed  negro  began  shouting  "Glory !" 
"Amen!"  "Daniel  at  the  judgment!"  as  though  it 
were  a  camp-meeting.  At  the  end  there  was  a  storm 
of  applause.  Don't  think  me  conceited  if  I  say  that 
this  was  an  effective  speech.  It  wasn't  Al  Jennings 
who  spoke.  It  was  the  experience  of  Al  Jennings. 
My  years  on  the  dodge,  my  battles,  my  days  in  the 
prisoner's  dock,  my  month  in  the  dark  cell,  my  awful 
soul-wrench  at  Fort  Leavenworth,  my  downfall  after 
I  left  prison,  my  struggle  back — these  had  raised  me 

342 


REHABILITATION 

from  a  speaker  to  an  orator.  Once  I  could  only  con- 
vince people ;  now  I  could  move  them. 

In  the  subsequent  primaries  only  three  Hurrah 
men  voted  against  me. 

I  spoke  in  two  or  three  other  small  towns  before 
I  tried  out  Oklahoma  City.  Feeling  still  uncertain 
how  the  ])eople  of  the  metropolis  would  receive  me,  I 
asked  Dr.  E.  T.  Bynum,  a  man  of  cultivation  and 
wide  experience,  to  go  with  me  to  Wheatland  and 
criticize.  There  I  addressed  from  a  wagon  fifty  or 
sixty  people.  When  I  had  finished  Bynum  spoke 
enthusiastically. 

"But  I'm  wanting  criticism,"  I  said. 

"I  can  give  you  none  which  wouldn't  spoil  your 
work,"  he  replied.  "Talk  in  the  city  as  you  have 
here  and  you'll  get  them!" 

So  Dr.  Bynum  and  Judge  R.  A.  Rogers  arranged 
a  speaking  date  for  me  in  the  capital,  advertising  it 
with  newspaper  space  and  handbills.  They  had  some 
trouble  in  finding  the  proper  man  to  introduce  me. 
Finally  I  myself  asked  Hon.  Claude  Weaver,  a  candi- 
date for  Congress.     He  accepted  at  once. 

"Remember,"  I  warned  him,  "you  are  a  candidate, 
and  it  will  make  you  enemies." 

"Men  who'd  be  my  enemies  on  that  account  aren't 
fit  to  be  my  supporters,"  he  replied. 

We  drew  a  full  house,  though  people  came  mostly 
343 


BEATING    BACK 

out  of  curiosity.  They  wanted  to  hear  how  the  ex- 
bandit  would  get  around  his  old  record.  But,  before 
I  finished,  two  or  three  machine  men,  who  had  pre- 
viously treated  my  campaign  as  a  joke,  rushed  out  of 
the  hall  and  assembled  a  conference.  For  my  frank 
statement  of  my  past  and  my  open  denunication  of 
certain  state  officials  took  the  crowd  in  the  city  as  it 
had  in  the  villages. 

Several  men  were  already  endorsed  and  in  the  field. 
The  machine,  I  understood,  decided  to  put  up  others, 
to  find,  through  a  kind  of  preliminary  campaign, 
which  seemed  strongest,  and  to  concentrate  on  him.  I 
announced  publicly  that,  with  one  or  two  exceptions, 
all  my  opponents  were  puppets  of  the  machine.  A 
few  days  later  they  withdrew  in  a  body,  leaving  the 
field  to  me  and  Zwick.  All,  except  Judge  A.  N. 
Munden,  who  was  not  a  machine  man,  endorsed 
Zwick. 

Now  the  fight  began  in  earnest.  I  rushed  like  a 
whirlwind  through  the  county,  speaking  at  halls, 
schoolhouses,  cross-roads,  and  street  corners.  I  be- 
came the  feature  of  the  primary  campaign.  The 
other  candidates  took  to  following  me  around.  At 
first  I  seemed  to  draw  better  in  the  country  than  in 
Oklahoma  City,  and  so  I  concentrated  on  the  capital. 
With  the  help  of  a  wagon,  which  went  about  an- 
nouncing my  noonday  street  meetings,  I  began  to 


REHABILITATION 

draw  enormous  crowds.  Of  course,  the  people  came 
to  hear  a  bandit  story — that  was  my  bait.  But  they 
remained  to  hear  my  say  about  certain  officials.  I 
kept  strengthening  this  part  of  my  campaign.  I 
gave  names  and  facts.  I  made  statements  daily 
which,  if  untrue,  would  have  laid  me  liable  to  charges 
of  slander.  Even  the  friendly  newspapers  dared  not 
print  all  I  said.  Once  I  heard  that  the  grand  jury 
expected  to  indict  me — for  slander,  I  suppose.  I 
bored  in  deeper  than  ever — and  the  grand  jury  never 
acted. 

The  machine  went  out  after  me,  not  only  secretly 
but  openly.  They  tried  to  get  up  opposition  meet- 
ings within  a  block  of  my  crowd.  This  proved  a 
failure;  everyone  flocked  to  hear  the  bandit.  Once 
I  was  speaking  to  three  thousand  people  at  Cali- 
fornia Street  and  Broadway,  when  two  machine  men 
stood  up  at  another  corner  and  tried  to  entertain 
two  hundred  people.  They  carried  a  life-sized  pic- 
ture of  a  masked  robber  holding  up  a  train.  "This 
is  the  man  who  is  running  for  county  attorney 
against  a  decent  citizen,"  read  the  legend.  Someone 
reported  that  fact  to  me — while  I  was  speaking.  I 
stopped  to  say  that  you'd  never  get  those  men  any 
nearer  a  bandit  than  his  picture.  "But  I  promise 
you  one  thing,"  I  said.  "If  I  am  elected  you'll 
see    a    string    of    officials    and    politicians    taking 

34-5 


BEATING    BACK 

a  trip  to  the  institution  known  as  the  penitentiary." 

A  day  or  so  later,  as  I  came  out  of  the  elevator 
at  the  state  bank  building,  I  met  face  to  face  a  Demo- 
cratic politician. 

"Hello,  Al,"  he  said,  in  an  insinuating  way,  "I 
hear  you're  going  to  send  me  to  the  penitentiary. 
How  would  you  advise  me  to  proceed?  I  understand 
you've  had  experience."  His  pals,  standing  around 
him,  laughed. 

"Friend,"  I  said,  "you're  safe.  I  believe  in  prison 
reform.  I  wouldn't  contaminate  the  horse-thieves 
with  your  presence.  In  two  days  you'd  steal  the 
hinges  off  the  prison  gates." 

We  haven't  spoken  since. 

On  the  eve  of  the  primaries  my  friends  calculated 
that  I  was  a  winner  by  two  thousand  votes.  I  didn't 
feel  so  sure.  I  knew  that  the  election  law  in  Oklahoma 
was  admirably  formed  for  corrupt  uses,  and  that 
the  gang  controlled  the  election  machinery.  How- 
ever, the  early  figures  showed  me  leading  by  better 
majorities  than  I  expected.  Then  the  returns  slowed 
up,  and  the  Jennings  vote  dwindled.  It  was  more 
than  a  week  before  I  could  get  my  certificates,  which 
showed  that  I  had  won  by  a  majority  of  590  votes. 
Afterward  a  machine  man,  in  a  position  to  know,  said 
to  one  of  my  friends : 

"The  damned  hound  was  nominated  by  2,500,  and 
346 


REHABILITATION 

we  tried  to  shove  him  out.  But  we  couldn't.  The 
majority  was  too  much  for  us." 

As  soon  as  my  nomination  had  become  a  cer- 
tainty Mr.  Foster,  of  the  News,  hunted  me  up. 

"Al,"  he  said,  "the  regular  proceeding  now  would 
be  for  you  to  lie  down,  stop  muckraking,  make  your 
peace  with  the  machine,  and  let  tliem  carry  you  into 
office.     I  hope  you  won't  do  that !" 

"You  bet  your  life,  Foster,  I  won't !"  I  said. 

However,  I  had  my  temptations ;  and  they  came 
not  only  from  the  other  side,  but  from  my  friends. 
If  I  would  keep  still  for  the  time  being,  some  of  my 
supporters  said,  the  machine  would  thinl:  that  I'd 
been  muckraking  only  to  get  the  nomination,  and 
would  stop  opposing  me.  When  I  got  into  office  I 
could  start  my  prosecutions  according  to  program. 
I  disagreed  with  that  view.  I  had  stirred  up  the 
plain  people  by  my  exposures.  If  I  quit  it  would 
appear  to  them  that  I  was  abandoning  the  fight,  and 
they  wouldn't  support  me.  Besides,  such  a  proceed- 
ing seemed  dishonest  to  me.  It  would  be  obtaining 
office  under  false  pretences.  I  whirled  into  the  can- 
vas, practically  without  support  of  my  own  party, 
and  continued  to  whack  both  sides. 

jNIy  campaign  for  election  differed  but  little  from 
my  campaign  for  nomination.  There  were  the  same 
street-corner   speeches,  with  the   citizens   and  small 

347 


BEATING    BACK 

boys  coming  to  see  me  as  a  show,  and  remaining  to 
hear  my  say  about  pubhc  officials.  Some  of  my 
friends  think  that  I  played  the  bandit  line  too  heavily 
in  the  last  stages.     I  disagree  with  them. 

However,  my  record,  as  I  expected,  became  the 
strongest  argument  against  me.  With  the  more 
conservative  and  respectable  class  it  proved  espe- 
cially effective.  Oklahoma  City  couldn't  afford,  said 
the  machine,  to  have  an  ex-convict  representing  it 
before  the  world.  I  had  defended  many  whiskey 
peddlers.  The  machine  made  the  most  of  that.  Un- 
officially several  church  organizations  declared 
against  me.  The  Law  Enforcement  League,  formed 
to  prevent  illicit  liquor  selling,  wrote  me  a  formal 
letter,  asking  where  I  stood  on  prohibition.  I  re- 
plied that  I'd  enforce  the  law,  and  I'd  begin  on  the 
officials  who  permitted  Oklahoma  City  to  go  wide 
open  under  their  very  eyes.  Many  such  people  Avent 
to  my  meetings  skeptics  and  came  away  convinced. 
For  example.  Professor  Evans,  of  the  State  Normal 
school,  had  dinner  in  town  one  night  with  a  party  of 
eastern  schoolbook  salesmen.  They  looked  through 
the  restaurant  window,  and  saw  the  crowd  gathering 
for  one  of  my  meetings. 

Professor  Evans  says  that  he  told  of  my  campaign 
with  a  kind  of  shame  for  the  city.  The  others  agreed 
that  to  elect  such  a  man  would  be  a  blot  on  any 

348 


REHABILITATION 

community.  When  I  appeared  they  joined  the 
crowd  out  of  curiosity;  but,  after  I  had  finished, 
they  shook  my  hand,  and  wished  me  well.  Professor 
Evans  campaigned  for  me  to  the  end. 

The  strength  of  my  position  was  the  strength 
of  truth.  I  had  told  the  worst  about  myself,  and 
I  had  no  reprisals  to  fear.  Yet  they  labored  to 
catch  me  in  a  misstatement,  or  to  find  some  bit  of 
scandal  worse  than  train-robbery  and  two  terms  in 
prison.  The  author  of  my  campaign  circulars 
wrote  carelessly  that  I  was  a  graduate  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Virginia.  That  happened  to  be  a  mis- 
take; the  truth  is  that  I  went  to  the  University  of 
West  Virginia,  and  didn't  get  a  degree.  However, 
the  slip  seemed  to  me  so  unimportant  that  I  took 
no  pains  to  correct  it.  My  opponents  telegraphed 
to  the  University  of  Virginia,  found  that  no  student 
of  my  name  had  ever  been  enrolled  there,  and  made 
much  of  the  fact.  The  rumor  grew  that,  on  the 
morning  of  the  Chickasha  robbery  I  had  brutally 
and  grossly  mistreated  the  wife  of  the  section  boss. 
Among  other  brutalities — I  learned  to  my  surprise 
— I  had  kicked  her  in  the  stomach.  Certain  ma- 
chine men  sent  for  this  woman,  hoping  to  get  a  sen- 
sational statement.  She  told  the  truth,  which  made 
her  useless  for  their  purposes. 

I  have  related  before  how  Louis,  an  old  postoffice 
34-9 


BEATING    BACK 

burglar,  nursed  mc  back  when  I  was  sick  in  the  Ohio 
penitentiary,  and  how,  by  robbing  the  prison  pantry 
to  get  me  proper  food,  he  risked  all  his  privileges. 
I  believe  that  he  saved  my  life.  In  the  very  heat 
of  my  campaign  I  received  a  telegram  from  him. 
He  had  been  arrested  at  Tulsa,  Oklahoma,  and  car- 
ried to  iMadill,  charged  with  robbing  the  First  Na- 
tional Bank.  I  dropped  everything  and  went  to  see 
him.  Ten  minutes'  talk  convinced  me  that  this  was 
a  case  where  the  police  grab  the  first  burglar  in 
sight  and  try  to  saddle  him  with  the  crime.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Louis  had  been  in  the  Lee-Huckins 
Hotel,  at  Oklahoma  City,  on  the  night  of  the  bur- 
glary. He  remembered  that  Cliff  Walker,  the  hotel 
detective,  looked  him  over  carefully.  I  returned 
home,  saw  Cliff  Walker,  found  that  he  had  actually 
made  an  entry  in  his  notebook  describing  this  man 
with  the  prison  look.  Further,  he  had  called  the 
attention  of  ex-Lieutenant-Governor  Bellamy  and 
Captain  Phelps  to  Louis — and  they  remembered.  I 
took  back  with  me  to  Madill  a  letter  from  Mr.  Bel- 
lamy, and  I  got  Mr.  Walker  and  Captain  Phelps  to 
accompany  me  in  person.  On  the  strength  of  this 
evidence  I  had  the  charge  dismissed  without  trial. 
Then  I  took  Louis  home  with  me  for  a  week's  visit. 
He  is  a  gentleman;  my  wife  and  sister-in-law  said 
that  they  never  had  a  guest  whom  they  liked  better. 

350 


REHABILITATION 

That  visit  rose  up  against  me.  A  clergyman 
started  it  by  saying  that  he  would  not  vote  for  me 
because  I  had  harbored  burglars.  This  report  went 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  until  I  was  forced  to  meet  it 
from  the  platform.  I  told  the  people  exactly  what 
Louis  had  done  for  me.  "I  haven't  harbored  a  bur- 
glar," I  added,  "but  I  have  entertained  one.  I  found 
him  more  mannerly  and  honest  than  most  of  your 
county  and  city  officials." 

Still,  as  the  campaign  drew  to  a  close  I  fought 
without  much  hope. 

My  friends  said:    "It's  a  walkover." 

"On  public  enthusiasm,  yes,"  I  replied.  "But  re- 
member how  the  primaries  went.  They  simply  can't 
afford  to  let  me  win." 

I  was  in  the  midst  of  things,  declaring  nightly  my 
intention  to  put  certain  officials  in  the  peniten- 
tiary, when  a  chance  remark  called  back  to  my  mem- 
ory the  tailor  shop  at  Fort  Leavenworth,  and  made 
me  realize  what  I  was  doing.  I'd  thought,  in  the 
penitentiary,  that  no  imaginable  crime  deserved  my 
fate.  And  here  I  was,  promising  to  administer  just 
such  punishment  wholesale !  I  mentioned  this  to  my 
crowd  next  day.  "Even  after  I've  convicted  the 
truly  guilty,"  I  said,  "I'll  get  down  on  my  knees  to 
ask  mercy  of  the  chief  executive.  I  don't  want 
vengeance  on  the  grafters — I  want  to  clean  up  this 

351 


BEATING    BACK 

state.  What  I  propose  to  do  is  administer  the 
law,  shutting  my  eyes  to  the  remote  consequences. 
I  am  out  to  show  the  people  of  Oklahoma,  for  the 
first  time,  that  a  man  who  betrays  the  public  trust 
is  more  guilty  than  the  man  who  steals  a  horse. 
Only  one  thing  would  test  my  strength  or  weakness 
— to  prosecute  some  poor  devil  who,  driven  by  hun- 
ger and  want,  had  stolen  to  feed  starving  mouths 
and  clothe  naked  forms."  On  that  note  I  closed  my 
campaign. 

Though  the  county  and  district  were  electing 
some  twenty  officials,  including  a  member  of  Con- 
gress, my  race  for  district  attorney  had  become,  I 
suppose,  the  feature  of  the  campaign.  On  election 
night,  they  tell  me,  the  crowds  before  the  newspaper 
offices  paid  little  attention  to  anything  except  the 
returns  for  county  attorney.  I  received  the  bulle- 
tins in  my  office,  of  which  I  had  made  a  political 
headquarters  for  the  past  three  months.  The  early 
returns  exceeded  our  expectations.  From  two  thou- 
sand the  forecast  of  my  friends  grew  to  twenty-five 
hundred.  I  began  to  think,  for  the  first  time,  that 
perhaps  I  should  squeeze  by. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  the  returns  suddenly 
stopped.  I  waited  fifteen  minutes,  twenty  minutes, 
half  an  hour. 

"That  settles  it,  boys,"  I  said  finally,  "I'm  gone !" 
352 


REHABILITATION 

At  last  the  returns  came  straggling  in  again. 
They  showed  a  great  slump.  The  morning  news- 
papers declared  that,  although  they  had  not  received 
full  returns,  they  could  announce  my  defeat.  Eight 
or  ten  days  passed  before  I  got  complete  figures. 
Many  ballot  boxes  were  turned  in  late;  mostly  they 
had  been  "hidden  out." 

I  had  not  the  money,  nor  yet  the  influence,  to 
make  a  contest.  I  let  it  stand.  But  I  ask  any  man 
acquainted  with  American  politics  this  question : 
When  a  State  is  tied  up  by  a  corrupt  bipartisan 
gang  of  politicians,  which  controls  the  machinery  of 
election ;  when  an  independent  candidate  arises  who 
threatens,  if  elected,  to  put  most  of  those  politicians 
in  jail;  and  when  that  candidate,  after  a  campaign 
which  seems  all  in  his  favor,  is  defeated  by  500  votes 
in  a  total  of  12,000 — isn't  he  really  elected.'' 

The  reformer  who  declares  that  he  works  for 
wholly  altruistic  motives  is  posing.  The  best  of 
them  have  mixed  motives.  Besides  the  desire  to 
right  the  wrongs  in  the  world  they  are  driven  also 
by  hunger  for  fame  or  position  or  admiration.  I 
freely  admit  that  I  ran  for  county  attorney  with 
two  ends  in  view.  I  wanted  the  job — not  so  much 
for  fame,  position,  and  power  as  for  rehabilitation. 
But  I  also  wanted  to  waken  the  people  of  city, 
county  and  state  to  tlieir  public  condition.     Since 

353 


BEATING    BACK 

I  am  convinced  that  I  was  elected,  I  consider  that  I 
gained  my  first  object.  The  people  proved  to  me 
that  an  ex-convict,  by  playing  the  game  straight, 
and  without  concealment,  can  come  back. 

Also  I  achieved  something  of  my  second  object. 
I  woke  the  people  of  the  capital;  I  helped  wake  the 
people  of  the  state.  The  legislature  which  met  in 
1913,  less  than  a  year  after  my  campaign,  showed 
a  disposition  toward  political  reform.  They  over- 
turned our  election  laws ;  they  investigated  by  com- 
mission our  public  institutions ;  they  even  got  some 
indictments.  It  does  not  matter  that  the  net  caught 
the  lesser  offenders  and  let  the  greater  go  by;  this 
happens  generally  in  the  dawn  of  reform.  The 
point  is  that  Oklahoma  made  a  beginning.  I  opened 
that  fight;  and  I  have  not  by  any  means  finished 
fighting. 

Anyone  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  read  this 
story  can  draw  the  moral,  I  suppose.  Ex-convicts 
can  come  back  if  they  take  the  right  method. 
"Grasp  the  nettle  and  it  will  not  sting,"  is  an  old 
saying,  but  a  true  one.  The  man  who  goes  out  of 
prison  with  his  record  on  his  sleeve  may  expect  the 
best,  not  the  worst,  of  humanity.  People  will  give 
him  a  chance.  Only  he  must  be  genuinely  reformed. 
If  he  keeps  up  any  of  his  old  practices  he  is  only 

354 


REHABILITATION 

preparing  for  a  harder  fall.  The  man  who  conceals 
his  record,  on  the  other  hand,  is  riding  to  his  doom. 
Sooner  or  later  it  will  either  rise  up  to  overthrow 
him  or  it  will  break  his  heart-  My  way,  I  believe, 
is  the  only  way. 

And  this  applies  not  only  to  prison  convictions, 
but  to  other  disgraces  as  well.  In  nearly  fifty  years 
of  varied  experience  I  have  observed  many  scandals 
of  many  kinds.  I  have  seen  men  and  women  crushed 
and  killed  by  the  disgrace.  I  have  seen  others  out- 
live scandal,  and  make  successes  of  their  lives,  by 
the  process  of  facing  it  down.  The  greatest  power 
in  the  world,  I  suppose,  is  the  power  of  truth;  and 
next  is  the  power  of  not  being  afraid. 


THE  END 


(I) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


M; 


^^        AUG2  3iqp 


A 


Form  L-9-15m-3,'34 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  662  969    b 


58  01290  4958 


